Empty Men
by Tapestry
Summary: The beginning of Days of Future Past, this time instigated not by the assassination of Senator Robert Kelly, but the election of Graydon Creed as President of the United States. Touches on X-Men, Excalibur, and former members of the New Mutants as well as
1. Default Chapter

DoFP: Empty Men, 1/?  
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.com   
  
Disclaimer: Marvel's characters: Sam, Rahne, Ahab, Kurt, Kitty, Manuel, Rachel. My  
characters: Dawn, Glenn, Danny, Brand, Chase. I think that's it. And this is probably  
going to be rated PG-13, for semi-disturbing imagery (later) and language (also later).  
  
Author's Note: Okay, where to start. First of all, I'd like to say this is Matt Nute's fault  
for giving me this idea, and Redhawk's idea for encouraging it. This started out as a  
Dawn story, but on further reflection I don't think it's going to end that way (and  
incidentally, Brandwyn and Daniel are partly Falstaff's fault, being Arleccino Timeline  
refugees). There are a bunch of former New Mutants in here, for one. This is one of the  
only stories that have actually required me to keep a list of characters involved. It's also  
one of the only stories that makes me feel obligated to apologize for the slow start.  
Exposition is fun, eh? Ah well, on to the plot.   
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Prologue  
  
  
  
Manuel Alfonso Rodrigo de la Rocha felt his throat constrict.   
  
"Senor Ahab, I am not comfortable with this."  
  
"You aren't paid to be 'comfortable,'de la Rocha. You are paid to be *effective.*"  
  
"Y...yes, sir." He hated this. He hated being so weak and helpless. Ahab, damn him,  
had equipped psionic inhibitors and mood stabilizers to protect him from Manuel's  
empathic powers, and there was nothing he could do about it.   
  
And Ahab just left. That was another thing Manuel despised. The madman trusted  
him to do his job, and do it well. No hassle, no questions asked. Not for Ahab's favorite  
pet.   
  
Normally he could ignore it. He could tell himself it was just a job, and that he was  
actually doing these mutants a favor. After all, there were worse fates than being made to  
love an abhorrent task. Like being left with your sanity while your performed it anyway,  
for one thing. He could take away their revulsion, and leave bliss in its wake. He hated  
himself for thinking like that, but it made the job bearable.   
  
Or, he thought as he looked at Ahab's newest offering, it had until now.  
  
She was older and sadder, and thinner than he remembered her to be, but he knew  
her. They had undergone rehabilitation together on Muir Island after an unexpected  
power-spike had left him near-crippled. His new project was Dawn Embers -- no, it was  
Keaton now, he remembered -- a girl he had not seen in years.  
  
She was unconscious, drugged, and already outfitted in the proto-Hound suit. No  
scars yet, but they would come soon enough. Manny carefully reached out with his  
empathic talent, probing her shields. The drugs had made them terribly thin. It would be  
so easy to twist her without her ever knowing...  
  
:Manny..?:  
  
He felt his teeth clench. _It is too late. She is awake._  
  
Manuel exhaled softly, and returned the psitouch. :Si, Dawn. It has been long since  
last we met.:  
  
She laughed shakily, her eyes still closed, and her lips curved in a slight smile. :Years,:  
she replied. :You never did see the kids, did you? Daniel and Brandwyn...:  
  
:Brandwyn?: Manuel tried to snort. :What an appalling thing to name a child. You are  
truly a cruel woman.:  
  
:After Glenn's grandmother,: Dawn confessed. :But she's a good kid, really. She and  
Danny are both...: The rest of the thought died unformed. Those blue eyes, so wide and  
credulous, finally opened, and ripped away the drug-induced haze in one quick, cruel  
moment.  
  
For a long moment she was silent, mentally and vocally, as she took in her  
surroundings. The monitors, the equipment, the restraints...and finally Manuel, standing  
beside her and wearing his green conditioner's uniform with its badge of rank and  
discreet red "M" on the breast that marked him as a mutant. He felt his heart -- or was it  
her's? He couldn't tell -- sink like a stone.  
  
"Oh," she whispered at last, her unfocused eyes still sliding around the room. "It  
was...real. I made a mistake, didn't I? I thought maybe he was telling the truth about  
defecting, so I went to meet him. I knew it was stupid, but I'd hoped..." she shook her  
head helplessly. "Where's Glenn?"  
  
"Was he with you?"  
  
"Yes. They didn't hurt me, but I...I think they may have shot him."  
  
"If I hear of him, I will tell you."   
  
Dawn chewed her lip. "Thank you. So. What's going to happen to me?"  
  
"You're going to become a Hound." Manuel didn't dare let any emotion show; the  
room was under constant surveillance. Still, it was difficult to stifle a wince as a cold  
wash of Dawn's fear dripped down his spine.  
  
"And you're going to be the one that does it?" Dawn's voice was steady, but Manuel  
could feel the turbulent emotions beneath it. She must have known that they were being  
watched; Manuel was an empath, and no amount of acting could hide her emotions from  
him. This was purely for the benefit of their audience.  
  
"I am," Manuel replied. Then, mentally, :I am sorry, senorita.:  
  
"I...see." :It's all right, Manny. We do what we have to do if we want to survive.:  
  
_She's terrified, _he thought as he touched her forehead. She smelled of sweat and  
drugs and lilacs. _She's terrified, and yet she does not blame me. Somehow, that makes it  
all the worse._  
  
"Let's begin," Manuel said, eyes glowing.   
  
  
End prologue.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ahhh..."  
  
"Dinna squirm, Glenn. This is difficult enough as 'tis."  
  
"Rahne..?" Glenn Keaton blinked, tried to sit up, and collapsed back onto the pallet.  
"Let me...guess. I was shot in the stomach."   
  
"Aye," the redheaded werewolf nodded, dropping the final bullet into a metal tray  
with a ping. "I already got that one. I'm sorry, but I had tae cut ye a bit tae get it out.  
Ye'd already started healin' over it."  
  
"Did it hit anything important?"  
  
"Nae."  
  
"Thank God. I hate going septic. Where's Dawn? Is she all right?"  
  
Rahne Sinclair hesitated as she reached for the rubbing alcohol -- the strongest  
antiseptic she'd managed to find. "Ye...dinna remember what happened?"  
  
"I remember getting shot, obviously," Glenn replied, rubbing his forehead. "Dawn  
ran, I tried to distract them...where is she? She got out all right, didn't she"  
  
Rahne bit her lip. "She...didna come back," she said at last. "By the time we found  
you she was a'ready gone."  
  
Glenn tried to sit up again, but Rahne forced him back down. He settled for gritting  
his teeth, fists, and any other muscles that could manage it.   
  
"Was she...did you smell..?"   
  
Rahne shook her head. "No, nae blood. None o' it hers, anyway. It'll be all right. I  
dinna believe he would truly hurt her."  
  
Glenn shook his head miserably. "Rahne, I know you liked him, but Dr. Campbell  
isn't the same man he was before the...incident. He couldn't even touch that man with a  
ten foot pole. It's a lost cause." Rahne didn't reply, and Glenn sighed. "All right, I won't  
talk about it. Where are Danny and Brand? I guess I'd better tell them Mom's going to be  
gone for a while."  
  
"Are ye sure ye want tae see them like this?" Rahne inquired doubtfully. "Ye're still  
leakin' a bit..."  
  
Glenn shrugged. "They've seen me worse. I remember Danny walked in on me when I  
had half my face off once..." he chuckled, but it sounded forced, even to him. "He  
thought it was brilliant once I explained it was going to grow back. A few bullet wounds  
aren't going to scare them."  
  
Rahne nodded reluctantly, and went to fetch them. Glenn sighed and leaned back,  
only dimly aware of his body's efforts to repair itself. He would be hungry soon, and  
tired, but until then he had time to think.  
  
He'd known it hadn't been a good idea. The only reason he'd gone at all was to back  
up Dawn, who would have insisted on going alone had he not. Two children and over a  
decade of experience in the X-Men, and she'd still managed to retain her amazing  
inability to plan ahead.  
  
Still, even she should have known better than to trust the word of Ahab, who they  
had met as Rory Campbell. After his exposure to the Shadow King a half a decade ago,  
Rory had never been the same -- and, much to Excalibur's dismay, he had quit his job  
under Alistair Stuart. Then, shortly after Graydon Creed's inauguration, he had  
reappeared . . . as Director of Mutant Affairs. Many of his former friends had still  
harbored a fragile hope that he was simply trying to change the government from within,  
but those hopes had been ripped away the minute Rory, now calling himself Ahab, had  
ordered Professor Charles Xavier assassinated. With extreme prejudice.   
  
And yet, after receiving Ahab's offer for a personal meeting to discuss perhaps  
defecting to their side, Dawn had gone to meet him without hesitation. She'd been  
so*certain* about him...  
  
_But that's the problem with the gel,_ Glenn thought sadly, letting his eyes close.  
_She wants to trust people, an' in this day in age, you can't. Not if you want to stay  
alive._  
  
"Dad?"   
  
Glenn's eyes snapped open, and he realized that he must have been dozing. His son  
Daniel was beside his cot, and his daughter Brandwyn was behind him. She was clinging  
to the pantleg of Samuel Guthrie, who must have been babysitting them while Glenn had  
been unconscious. Her blue eyes were wide.  
  
"'ey, Danny, Brand," he said, trying to smile. "Sorry, I'm a bit worn out."   
  
"Where's Mom?" Brand asked immediately. Glenn's smile dropped.   
  
"Mum...may be gone for a while," he said. And, because he knew his children well  
enough to know that sugar-coating the truth would only insult them, he continued, "She  
was caught."  
  
"By the Execs?" Danny said. "The Execs" was short for "the Executives" -- the local  
name for the group of mutants who cooperated with the government in bringing other  
mutants to what served as justice these days.  
  
Glenn shook his head. "No, Mutant Control Officers," he said. It was embarrassing,  
now that he thought about it. 'How did you lose your wife?' 'Well, sir, I got shot while I  
was trying to run interference, and passed out.' Dawn had at least had an excuse -- all  
MCOs were equipped with psi-shields, and psionics were his spouse's first line of  
defense. He, on the other hand, could throw a man halfway across the block. He felt he  
had no excuse.  
  
Brand must have thought the same, because she stuck out her chin and glared at him.   
  
"You let Mommy be caught by em-cos?" she demanded, unlatching herself from  
Sam's jeans. Glenn felt the absurd need to justify himself.  
  
"I got shot," he informed her, pointing to his scarred abdomen. "And Mum wasn't  
hurt, at least as far as Aunt Rahne could tell." He forced himself to look his daughter in  
the eye. "I'm sure she'll be back soon."   
  
"But Dad..." Danny said, after several long seconds of silence, "doesn't everybody the  
MCOs catch have to go to...Dr. Campbell?" Danny always referred to Ahab like this,  
partly because his mother and Rahne did, and partly because Brand was frightened of the  
name Ahab. Most mutants were.   
  
"Dr. Campbell liked Mum, Danny," Glenn reminded him.   
  
"But Dad..." Danny chewed on his lip, "Dr. Campbell liked Rachel, too, and he still  
took her. She used to talk about how he came to visit her when she was little. He gave  
her presents. But he still he attacked her house and took her away. What's he going to do  
to Mom?"  
  
Glenn didn't know what to say to that.  
  
"Ah wouldn't worry," Sam said, breaking the silence. "We've got contacts, an' Dawn's  
a smart girl. She'll be all right on her own."  
  
"But you'll still save her," Danny said. Sam nodded.   
  
"Positive," he replied, and Danny nodded, satisfied. Brand still looked pouty.  
  
"I wan' her now," the three-year-old insisted. "She was gonna teach me how to fly."  
  
"Aw, Brand, your wings are too little," Danny snorted.   
  
"Are not!" his sister growled, and started kicking him.   
  
"Hey! OW! Geez, I take it back! Dad, make her stop!"  
  
"Brandwyn..." Glenn tried to get up, winced, and slid back down.  
  
"Y'all have way too much energy," Sam said, picking Brand up by her arms. "Go bug  
Chase. Ah've gotta talk to ya daddy."  
  
"Can I stay?" Danny asked as Sam put down his sister. Sam shook his head.   
  
"Sorry, Danny. Ah'll tell ya later. Go look after ya sister, all right?"  
  
"All right."   
  
Danny made a face, but slouched out. Glenn watched him go.  
  
"'e's a good boy," he said after his son had gone. "But he's growin' up too fast."  
  
"He's the oldest," Sam said, taking a seat in the chair set by the bedside. "When yer  
oldest ya don't get the luxury of bein' a kid. Ya gotta be the responsible one."  
  
Glenn chuckled. "You understand kids. Wish I did."  
  
"Ah've got seven brothers an' sisters. Ah had ta learn. Fast."  
  
"I was an only child. It's been five years, an' I still don't know what ter do with 'em."  
  
"Ah think ya're doin' better'n ya think. But we can save the parentin' tips for later. We  
got some things to discuss."  
  
"All right. What is it?"  
  
Sam raked a hand through his short blond hair. "We gotta relocate. Now that they've  
got Dawn we can't take any chances. She's a strong girl, but we gotta assume Ahab can  
break anyone. We got a house full a' mutants here -- we can't afford ta take chances."  
  
"How will she know where to go if she escapes, then?"  
  
"She knows the safehouses, same as the rest of us. But she's just one person, Glenn.  
We gotta think about everyone. Ya don't think she'd want ya kids gettin' caught, do ya?"  
  
"No." Glenn clenched his fists. "Bloody hell. That's it. After this...no more fieldwork.  
I'm sorry, but we can't keep doin' this. Not with the kids. I don't mind dyin' -- you know,  
what with being an External and all -- but Dawn...she takes too many risks."  
  
Sam nodded. "Well, we'll miss ya, but Ah'm sure Mr. Wagner'll find somethin' for y'all  
ta do that's a bit less high risk. You two've done a lot for us -- Ah figure the least we  
owe ya is not ta increase ya kids' chances a' bein' orphaned. Family is important,  
'specially in this day in age."  
  
"Yeah," Glenn sighed. "I'd 'ave asked earlier, but things got rocky after the riots, an'  
then it never seemed to be the right time. There wasn't a lot of alternatives, either. Brand  
was already poppin' wings, an' Danny tested positive for the x-factor when he was born.  
We couldn't afford *not* to hide. But now the network's set up, an' we've  
got...alternatives. It'd be nice to settle down, even if just for a little while..."  
  
"Ah know the feelin'," Sam said. Glenn nodded sympathetically. He knew how long  
Sam and Rahne had been wanting to have children, but Sam was unwilling to do so while  
an active member of the X-Men. He wanted to devote all his energy to raising children,  
like his mother had. As he'd said, family was very important to him.  
  
"Well," Sam said, getting up, "Ah better go check on Chase an' make sure Brand  
hasn't tied him up again. Ah swear, ya'd think that boy's never been 'round kids in his  
life."  
  
"I think that's why they like him," Glenn replied. "Although I think Danny'll love you  
forever for teachin' him how to shoot."  
  
"Well, better he learned from me than on the fly. Mah daddy taught me when Ah was  
seven, an' Ah was the better for it, 'specially since he taught me the consequences right  
along with it. Danny's a little young, but Ah figure he's seen enough violence a'ready ta  
know guns ain't toys."  
  
"If he didn't already, Dawn would've made him," Glenn agreed. "I'm not so sure about  
Brand, though. She thinks everythin's a big game."  
  
"She's also three. Ah wouldn't worry 'bout it. Better she thinks it's a game than have  
nightmares about it, right?" Sam cocked his head, listening. "Ah think Ah hear 'em now.  
Chase has kind of a high-pitched scream, don't he?"  
  
"So would you if someone slid an icecube down your back," said Glenn, who had a  
larger lexicon of his daughter's antics than Sam. "Oi, Brand! Leave Chaser alone for a  
minute, I gorra talk to him!"  
  
There was a very audible "awwww" from the other side of the door, followed by  
heavy, frantic footsteps and the sound of someone wrestling with the doorknob. Sam  
opened it on the first try, and Chase fell into the room backwards.  
  
"Your daughter...is the *devil,*" he panted, picking himself up. "Would someone  
please free my hands?"  
  
"She takes after her mother," Glenn replied absently as Sam untied the young man.  
"Caught you while you were asleep again, didn't she?"  
  
"Yeah," Chase replied, rubbing his chafed wrists.   
  
"Seems ta happen a lot," Sam commented, neatly winding the jumprope around one  
hand. Chase shrugged.   
  
"My immune system is odd. I have to sleep a lot. After all the...things that were done  
to me, my energy level was thrown off."  
  
Glenn nodded. From what files they'd been able to steal in one of their raids of the  
local branch of government archives, the X-Men had found lists of several "genetically  
deviant dissenters held for questioning." They'd staged a raid of the supposed "Center for  
Behavioral and Social Modification" some weeks later, only to find that its alternate  
purpose was that of an abattoir.  
  
Glenn had paled, Rahne had gasped, and Dawn had simply thrown up in the corner. It  
had been Sam who had finally managed to swallow his gorge and move to inspect the  
subjects. He encountered cell after cell of victims, either been horribly mutilated or  
mind-raped so hard their tabula rasas had squeaked under a psychic's touch. In some  
cases both. And there, in the last cell, almost bald from stress and suffering from the  
early stages of botulism, was Chaser Morrigan -- the sole survivor of the affair.   
  
Now, seventh months later, Glenn could hardly believe this was the same boy Sam  
had half-helped, half-carried out of the cells. Chase's hair had regrown a rich blond, and  
all signs of malnourishment and abuse had virtually disappeared. He seemed to be a  
bottomless pit of energy...except for his habit of sleeping late and napping for hours at a  
time every afternoon. He also had the tendency to preen when he thought no one was  
looking, which amused Brand to no end. All things considered, Glenn figured the  
younger man was lucky his daughter hadn't shaved his head yet.   
  
Even so, they were inclined to give him easier assignments, such as procuring food  
through less than legal channels. He seemed to have an uncanny knack for the task,  
which was fortunate given how much of it he consumed. Still, Glenn had to admit that it  
was nice not to worry about rationing. Daniel was small for his age, and he'd been  
beginning to fear malnourishment.   
  
"Ah'da thought ya'd learn not ta sleep on the couch by now," Sam was saying, tossing  
the jumprope into the corner. "Ah swear, Brandwyn's got somethin' against ya."  
  
"She just likes to torment me," Chase replied, flicking his hair from his eyes. "What  
did you need?"  
  
"We're going to be movin' again," Glenn said, absently rubbing his healing wounds.  
"Can you get our things together? I'm going to be laid up for a while, and Dawn is..."  
  
"Dawn?" Chase frowned. "What happened?"  
  
Sam and Glenn exchanged a look.   
  
"You were asleep," Sam said. "Dawn was kidnaped while trynna talk to Ahab."  
  
Chase was silent for a long time, then shook his head violently. "But...why? I don't  
understand. She doesn't know anything!"  
  
"We're trying to figure that out, too," Glenn replied. "An' why they didn't kill me.  
Ahab knows I'm an External, but he just left me for dead."  
  
Chase frowned. "Why? They don't take mutants one by one. It's not...their style. It  
doesn't make *sense.*"  
  
"And ya're the authority?" Sam asked. Chase snorted.  
  
"I was caught by MCOs, remember? Me and the others. They raided our meeting  
place one night, and..." he shook his head. "They come in with nets and power  
neutralizers, box you in...they don't lure out one person at a time. And even if they were  
going to, they'd have gone after Sam. He's the sector leader."  
  
"Which would mean they want her for somethin' in particular," Sam concluded. He  
scratched his head. "Ah ain't gonna pretend that Ah know how Ahab thinks, but Ah can't  
figger out why he'd want another telepath. If he wanted ta scrape brainpans he'da chosen  
a non-psi -- they've got fewer defenses." He sighed. "Well, Ah'm sure we'll find out later.  
We'll get moved, then we'll start lookin'."  
  
"All right." Chase brushed back his bangs, shaking his head. He suddenly seemed  
tired. "I still can't believe it, but I'll go pack your things, Glenn."  
  
The young man left, closing the door behind him. Sam whistled through his teeth.  
  
"Ah still ain't sure 'bout him," he said. Glenn furrowed his brow.  
  
"You think he might be a spy?" he asked. The older man placed his hands in his  
pockets.  
  
"Like Ah said, Ah ain't sure. But somethin' about him just don't ring true."  
  
"Dawn scanned him. She said he was clear, at least so far as she could tell, what with  
his barriers and all. And the records were real -- we even had Kitty dig up those old hard  
copies she'd found months and months ago, and everythin' matched."  
  
"Ah know. But still." He smirked a bit. "Or maybe Ah'm just gettin' suspicious in mah  
old age. Rahne says he's got a good heart, and I ain't known her ta be wrong yet. Still,  
Ah'm keepin' mah eye on him, an' Ah'd appreciate it if you did, too."  
  
"All right," Glenn said. He sighed. "Do we have any more tranquilizers? I don't think  
sleep is going to be easy tonight."  
  
"Ah'll ask Rahne," Sam promised. "You lay off those after this, though. It ain't  
healthy."  
  
Glenn, who knew for a fact that his wife had been the major consumer of tranquilizers  
since the registering of mutants had begun, said nothing.   
  
"Ah'd better start makin' arrangements now," Sam continued, patting Glenn on the  
shoulder. "Rest up, hear? Tomorrow we'll start the move. The sooner that's done, the  
sooner we can go about findin' Dawn."  
  
"Right," Glenn said. The sector leader gave him an encouraging smile, and left to find  
his wife.   
  
_Rest,_ Glenn thought, leaning back. _How am I supposed to rest? My wife is God  
knows where, my kids are out of control, an' we might have a leak. I'll take that  
tranquilizer now, thanks._  
  
But Rahne didn't return for almost half an hour, and by that time Glenn had already  
fallen into a fitful sleep.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

DoFP: Empty Men 2/?  
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.com  
  
Disclaimer: Empath, Masque, Sebastian Shaw, Robert Kelly, Ahab, Emma Frost,  
Charles Xavier, the Summers family et al, Caliban, and Moira MacTaggert are all  
copyright Marvel. Seizure is mine. I think that's it for this chapter, but don't hold me  
to that. PG-13 for language and some general ickiness.   
  
Author's Note: First of all, special thanks to Redhawk for supplying some much-  
needed Empath dialogue when I got stuck. Dare you to guess which parts. ;)  
Secondly, I've added annotations for this thing, since I've encountered a little  
confusion so far. The page is at  
http://www.fortunecity.com/rivendell/zelda/98/dofppage.html , and I apologize for  
the banners in advance. This page should be updated whenever a new chapter comes  
up, so keep an eye on it.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
Champagne, evening dress, and caviar...it was difficult to believe a place like  
this could still exist in the world they had created. But here they were, the top dogs of  
the government's branch of the mutant control agency, drinking the night away as if  
there was nothing outside this room.   
  
Manuel stood in the shadow of an enormous decorative plant, sipping his  
champagne. He was drinking a bit too much, as he was beginning to develop a habit  
of doing, but that hardly mattered. There was no one here he would wish to talk to,  
especially not while the mandatory red M was pinned to the lapel of his tuxedo. There  
was the occasional mutant here and there, true, but mostly those associated with the  
Hound program. Masque, for example, who was responsible for physical  
modifications in the subjects, was sulking in another corner, glaring at the soiree as if  
it bore him some personal repugnance. And, with Masque's misshapen features and  
sour nature, it might as well have.   
  
Neither of the two would have been there at all had it not been for Ahab's  
express orders. This party was directly related to their area of expertise, after all, and  
anyway, it reminded them of who was in charge. There were few things Ahab  
treasured more than the opportunity to make his subordinates uncomfortable, and this  
was turning out to be an excellent opportunity.   
  
All around him he could feel the brush of emotions. Amusement, curiosity,  
distaste, apathy, lust...they were all there, in one capacity or another. He did his best  
to ignore the sources -- it was easier that way. He dared not exercise his influence  
over any of these people, not with Ahab watching him. But someday, someday  
soon...he hailed the waitress for another glass of champagne.   
  
His eyes were, almost inexorably, drawn towards a young technician. He'd  
forgotten her speciality, but he had long since ceased to care. He knew her as one  
who despised mutants, and took special pleasure in her position in the Hound  
program. She glanced his way, and her disgust rolled over him like a bitter yellow  
wave before she averted her gaze. The emotion (was it his, or a reflection of hers?)  
was mutual. She was one of the few technicians who had volunteered for the  
program. She took a very real, very personal delight in her role in the degradation of  
mutantkind, and regarded him, and all mutants, as something less than human.  
  
Well, Manuel could vent his frustrations on her, at least.  
  
Ahab frowned upon the use of his powers against subordinates, but only on  
paper. As long as Manuel's antics did not escalate the suicide rate, the man could  
have cared less. And surely interoffice flings were not against the rules...  
  
But not with himself. Even through the pleasant haze of vindictiveness and  
alcohol, Manuel was certain about that. No, there was a better way...  
  
His thoughts fell again on Masque. The man was a sharp shard of hatred and  
loathing in the midst of the party, and his opinion of Manuel -- and indeed, all mutants  
who did not harbor the same sort of horrible disfigurement as he -- was less than  
friendly. Manuel had often heard him laugh when discussing his work on the Hounds,  
gloating about how he had twisted yet another normal mutant, reveling in the petty  
victory torturing the helpless afforded him...  
  
Yes. Manuel made up his mind immediately. He reached into the pretty young  
technician's mind and stoked a lust, parallel to her hatred of mutants, and directed it  
towards Masque. It was surprisingly easy. The woman froze for a moment, stricken  
by the unfamiliar sensation, then immediately made for Masque. There was nothing  
delicate about the woman's overtures, and Manuel made sure Masque's response was  
appropriate. After scarcely two minutes the two departed, doubtless searching for  
somewhere more private, and Manuel allowed himself some smugness that, thanks to  
his manipulations, it was unlikely the sour mutant would be able to muster sufficient  
emotion to complete the transaction.   
  
Strange. It was the sort of job that would have delighted him in his days with  
the Hellfire Club, but somehow it left him oddly empty.   
  
"Well, de la Rocha, I see subtlety is no longer a priority."   
  
Manuel turned to see Sebastian Shaw, Black King of what remained of the  
Hellfire Club, standing a little off to one side. He could feel disapproval sleeting from  
the man like silver pins.  
  
"I do not need chiding, Sebastian," Manuel said, draining the last of his drink.  
"My mutancy is well-known, unlike some. They made no secret of their hatred for  
me."  
  
Shaw shook his head. "Sometimes, boy, discretion is the better part of  
survival. I will speak to you again when you're in a more receptive mood."  
  
_As if he would have spoken to me here anyway,_ Manuel thought sourly.  
Shaw, a prominent supplier of government technology, had not yet been exposed as a  
mutant. Manuel deeply suspected that Ahab had, at one point, been fully aware of  
Shaw's genetic status, but had either decided to overlook it or had forgotten it. The  
latter was entirely possible; Shaw's telepathic aide, Tessa, was still around,  
somewhere, and the woman was nothing if not competent. Perhaps she had managed  
to pierce Ahab's vaunted telepathic shields.  
  
Whatever the reason, Shaw continued to enjoy all the benefits of both high-  
priced businessman and government supporter. He and Robert Kelly, one of the  
President's closest advisors, remained good friends. Somehow the Black King always  
knew how to come out on top.   
  
Nonetheless, he was, if not friendly towards, then at least on speaking terms  
with Manuel. Manuel had been the closest thing his colleague Emma Frost had ever  
had to a protege, and perhaps Shaw felt some lingering sense of responsibility  
towards him. It was unlikely the man held any actual affection for him, but these days  
Manuel took what he could get.  
  
He set his champagne glass on a ledge, his appetite for drink gone. Maybe  
now would be a good time to leave. He'd put in an appearance, after all, perhaps he  
could beg off for the rest of the evening. It was unlikely Ahab would agree to it, but it  
was preferable to waiting for sobriety to overtake him.  
  
He left his corner and began to mingle, scanning the party. Ahab was nowhere  
to be found, of course -- that would have been too convenient. Well, perhaps that was  
for the best. That way no one would notice if he slipped out.  
  
As he made for the door he noticed a discreet crowd in the corner. The  
emotions emanating from it were a mingling of disgust and fascination, not necessarily  
out of place here, but unusually concentrated.   
  
Manuel edged forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what had captivated the  
crowd, and was surprised to see an unfamiliar face. The man was definitely a mutant -  
- he wore the dress uniform of the Executive, and the mandatory red M. Even despite  
all this, his genetic status was undeniable. The man was hideous; his head was bulbous  
and deformed, his body obviously withered even beneath the starch of the uniform.  
His right hand held a crutch, and beneath his pantleg there was a faint suggestion of a  
brace. He was being discreetly -- but quite obviously -- cornered.  
  
Somewhere deep in the bowels of Manuel's tattered pride a tiny worm of  
anger stirred at the touch of the mutant's red-gold flush of shame. The empath had  
been left with blessed little dignity thanks to Ahab, but he had begun to abhor seeing  
the same degradation done to others. It took little effort to dispel the crowd's interest  
in the mutant, and within moments they had dispersed.   
  
Even this, though, left Manuel with no feeling of satisfaction. Instead he found  
himself thinking about the hounded mutant. Why didn't he stand up for himself? If he  
were one of the Executive then surely he was an alpha-level. Why didn't he defend  
himself? Had the man no pride?   
  
_But then,_ Manuel thought, with a sort of dull resignation, _who am I to  
judge? I submit to Ahab's taunts and demands like a beaten dog. Who am I to  
question a man's pride?_  
  
As the thought ran its course, Manuel felt a brush against his psi-shields. He  
knew who it must be. He responded with a sense of dull inquiry, and immediately  
wished he hadn't. The resulting psilink, though light, scraped across his consciousness  
like rusty nails.  
  
:I am Seizure,: the mindvoice said, and Manuel felt his eyes gravitate back  
towards the speaker. The man was even uglier now that he had a clear view of him;  
one of his eyes bulged while the other remained a mere slit, and his nose was snubbed  
and skewed against his greyish face. Manuel could not help but suppress a shudder of  
revulsion.  
  
:I am Manuel Alfonso de la Rocha,: Manuel replied. Across the room, the  
withered form nodded its head.   
  
:The empath,: rasped the voice, harsh as steelwool. :Thank you.:   
  
And with that, the contact was gone, and their eye contact broke. Manuel  
could not say he was disappointed. The psitouch had been grating, almost painful --  
nothing like the cool, crisp touch of the White Queen, or the soft, osmotic presence of  
Dawn. Seizure was obviously a psi not used to casual conversation, which wasn't  
unusual -- the Executive had been chosen for their offensive skills, not their expertise  
in communication.   
  
Unfortunately, Manuel's careless act of benevolence had ruined whatever  
chance he might have had to escape. While he had been distracted, Ahab had arrived.  
He was dressed in a standard controller's uniform, which was actually a step up from  
the turtleneck and slacks he generally wore. Sadism, it seemed, bowed to no dress  
code.  
  
Someone tapped a glass with a spoon for attention. It was hardly needed --  
Ahab's presence was all it took to quiet the room.  
  
"Let's not mince words," Ahab said once all eyes were upon him. His ever-  
present five o'clock shadow and slightly wild hair made him seem oddly intense, even  
had he not had the benefit of an obsession one could drown in. "You have been called  
here to witness the next phase in mutant tracking and apprehension. As you well  
know, for almost a year now we have been developing a method for creating mutant-  
hunting Hounds -- genetically and psychically altered beings programmed to aid  
Mutant Control Officers. Tonight I have been authorized to announce that there have  
been two successful Hound converts, both of which have completed their first hunt."  
  
There was movement behind Ahab, and an assistant stepped into the spotlight.  
He was holding a leash attached to a very reluctant young girl. It was Rachel  
Summers, Ahab's first Hound.   
  
"As you can see, the initial process makes them somewhat docile," Ahab said  
calmly as Rachel cowered before the crowd, her eyes wide with fear. Ahab gave her  
an absent-minded pat on the head, fingering her bright, buzzed hair. "However,  
Summers here is the prototype. We expect that, in time, Hounds will be able to  
interact in society without a handler. We find mutants with psychic power to be  
preferable, but we have also had some success with those who possess heightened  
senses. This particular Hound is a telepath, and it is very likely its power will increase  
with age."  
  
_Especially considering she's only fourteen years old,_ Manuel thought acidly.  
He cared little enough for the X-Men, but Rachel had been his first assignment. She  
had screamed and fought, her psychic defenses surprisingly resilient. She had  
manifested her powers early, and it seemed that Xavier had taught her to reinforce her  
natural defenses. He remembered that the first time he had sat down beside the girl  
she'd surprised him with a telekinetic hammerblow so powerful it sent him flying right  
out of the observation room, and he'd required several weeks' leave to recover from  
the cracked ribs. Ahab hadn't let him retaliate. Rachel was...special, he had said, and  
so she had turned out to be. In the months it took to condition her, Manuel had  
become familiar with every facet of Rachel's psyche. Her love for her mother and  
father had been stripped down and redirected towards Ahab, which, perhaps, was for  
the better. Both parents had been killed in the initial raid on the X-Men's mansion.  
  
As for Ahab, he seemed to reciprocate the emotion, as much as someone as  
fractured as he was able. It had occurred to Manuel that Ahab saw her as something  
like a bonsai tree; something to be nurtured and protected, but never allowed to grow  
free. He had been present for every moment of her conditioning, and had developed  
some of the more sadistic techniques himself. He treated the girl like a prize  
bloodhound -- which, in many ways, she was.  
  
Of course, Manuel thought as Ahab continued to list the merits of the Hound  
program, what he hadn't mentioned was that only one in three mutants became  
successful trackers. Well, roughly. They had two Hounds and five...things. Mutants  
who hadn't even lasted past the initial breaking, and which Ahab still kept around as  
berserkers or guinea pigs. It seemed that a certain kind of mind was needed for the  
current Hound process: one strong enough to survive the conditioning, as Rachel  
was, or one already used to being a tracker, like the other one...  
  
Ahab's lecture wound down, and Manuel could taste the audience's reactions  
as the applause began. Most were...well, "pleased" wasn't the right word, but there  
was a general feeling of muted enthusiasm. A few fanatics were almost dancing with  
excitement, and many of those funding the program were at least vaguely satisfied to  
see their money well-spent (the fact that their contributions were deductible had  
nothing to do with it, Manuel was sure). A small part of the audience was frankly  
disturbed by the display, and Manuel wondered which were or would be supporting a  
bill to ban such procedures in the future. Surely some of them were already involved  
with resistance groups. Perhaps there was hope for the future yet.  
  
However, there was one small, almost conspicuously violent pocket of  
agitation in the crowd. Manuel recognized the flavor of the telepath, Seizure, on these  
emotions, and automatically turned towards where he had last seen the man. He was  
not clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Indeed, he was staring at Ahab and  
Rachel with a look of sheer horror on his face.   
  
_He can't possibly be surprised,_ Manuel thought, his lip curling with disgust.  
_How long did he believe that mutants could earn a respite by hunting for the  
government? As soon as Ahab has developed some practice that will make me  
obsolete, I'll be finished. So will the Executives. The only reason they allow us our  
position in society is because there is, at present, no way around it._  
  
Manuel glanced at Ahab. He was smiling that cold, cruel little smile that made  
shivers crawl up the empath's spine. For a moment his gaze shifted to Manuel, smug  
and mocking, and then it was turned to Seizure. Manuel flinched. He knew that look.  
"This is what's in store for you," it seemed to say. "This is your future, and you and I  
both know it."   
  
Seizure held Ahab's gaze for a long, shocked moment, then abruptly spun on  
his heel. He hobbled out, clutching his crutch like a lifeline, and was gone far faster  
than seemed possible. Manuel wished he could do the same, but Ahab had seen him.  
He would know if Manuel left, and find some way to punish him for it later. So,  
Manuel improvised. He headed straight for Ahab, doing his best to look utterly  
neutral and businesslike. As a student of Emma Frost, it was what he did best.  
  
"Yes, Manuel?" Ahab said as Manuel stopped a respectable distance from the  
man.   
  
"I wish to inspect the kennels," Manuel replied. "Your speech is done, and I  
feel the need to do something...productive."  
  
"Very well," Ahab said after a moment. Manuel exhaled. Apparently his  
employer had decided that he'd made his point for the night.   
  
"Well?" Ahab snapped, abruptly turning towards the aide, "Return Summers  
to the kennels. De la Rocha will accompany you. That is all."  
  
"Yes, sir," the aide said, saluting. Technically, Ahab did not have any military  
rank to speak of, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  
  
Rachel was eager to go. She had already pulled back from the crowd as far the  
leash would allow, and was straining to go farther. Manuel absently sent a wave of  
calm towards her, and she eased a bit.   
  
He and the aide left the party in silence, Rachel padding a little before them.  
The girl's alert green eyes scanned the hallway continuously, eager to please. She  
probably wasn't even aware of the tiny ball of resentment and rage that burned deep  
below her conscious thoughts. She had a particular hatred of Manuel, which he had  
let pass untouched. He felt that he had earned her loathing.  
  
"More special treatment from Campbell, eh?" the aide said as they walked  
through the hallways. "Between you and his sick obsession with Red here some of the  
boys think we know why we never see him with a woman. Tell me, de la Rocha, how  
many pieces of silver does your pretty white ass go for these days?"  
  
Manuel stopped walking, as did the man. Rachel, sensing the tension in the  
air, pulled away.   
  
Manuel turned to the aide, his perfect Spanish features twisted in a hateful  
grimace. "Just *pray* that there's always someone else there to kiss Campbell's ass.  
Because you really don't want to be in that position. Do you want to know what it's  
like, boy? Do you want to feel what he feels when he breaks another mutant? I could  
arrange that. I could make that the *last* thing you ever feel. So how about showing  
a little fucking gratitude, okay?"  
  
He could feel the aide's through his developing headache, and small wonder.  
Manuel was rarely inclined towards verbal abuse, especially when it was so much  
easier -- and more difficult to detect -- to simply press the emotional buttons. Tonight  
it no longer seemed worth the effort.   
  
They continued on in silence. After what felt like an eternity, they reached the  
kennels. It was a dark, filthy hall lined with cells, each equipped with an observation  
window. Scarred faces watched him as Rachel was returned to her cell, their eyes  
haunted and ravenous. One, a massive, craggy mutant called Caliban and Ahab's only  
truly successful Hound besides Rachel, turned away. Manuel had heard that Caliban  
had been a tracker for a group of subterranean grotesques called the Morlocks, then a  
servant of Apocalypse. It made sense -- Caliban had been astonishingly easy to  
condition. Previous programming had formed a virtual roadmap for Manuel to follow.  
It had hardly taken any time whatsoever.  
  
The other faces, on the other hand...Manuel shuddered. There was no trace of  
sanity in their eyes. Their emotions were primal and chaotic, full of pain and  
undirected rage. They were rarely bothered. The last time a guard had attempted to  
remove one from its cell he had been ripped in half. It had taken Manuel, two other  
psis, and a dozen guards to get it back under control. Ahab had been mildly amused.  
  
The aide deposited Rachel in her own cell, a little apart from the others. It had  
no window. Instead there was a small sliding panel high up on the door, and another  
panel near the ground where food could be inserted. It seemed almost as if Ahab were  
trying to keep Rachel all for himself, even in darkness of the kennels.  
  
Wordlessly, Manuel sat down in the cracked plastic chair that was the  
kennel's only furnishing. The guards barely noticed him. They were talking to the  
aide, voices lowered in some private joke. It was about him, no doubt, but he couldn't  
seem to muster the energy. Somehow the party had left him very, very tired.  
Ironically, the turbulent emotions of the Hounds soothed him. They, at least, were  
straightforward.  
  
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the Hounds' dull, empty need washing  
over him. He reached out, smoothing the raw pain of isolation and rage. He turned  
their despair into contentment, their pain into pleasure. He knew he was working  
around Ahab's directives; the Hounds' longing for human contact was an integral part  
of their conditioning, and the unbearable isolation of the kennels served as an  
incentive to obey human commands. The anger was something to be turned towards  
their targets, as it tended to make them keener on finding them -- or, in the  
berserkers' cases, to killing them. Manuel's influence would have to fade with his  
departure, but at least until then he could give the creatures some small manner of  
peace.  
  
Why did he do it? He wasn't sure. Guilt, possibly. As his control had  
increased and he had learned to more effectively separate the emotions of others from  
his own, Manuel had learned to empathize with the human psyche, especially a broken  
one. Perhaps it had been MacTaggert's accursed nagging while he had been at Muir,  
or his repeated exposure to mutant rebels, transient though their loyalties were.   
  
Or, the more cynical side of himself said as he watched Caliban's scarred face  
slack with bliss, perhaps all those noble ideals were wishful thinking, and he simply  
enjoyed the measure of control he held over these pathetic beings. He controlled so  
little in his life, after all -- didn't he deserve something?   
  
Pushing his empathy to its limits, Manuel sighed and wished for another glass  
of wine as he gave the Hounds the peace he himself would never feel.   
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Empty Men 3/?  
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.com  
  
Disclaimer: Random, Nga, Leong, Arclight, Pipeline, Val Cooper and Rachel  
Summers belong to Marvel. Seizure belongs to me.   
  
Author's Note: http://www.fortunecity.com/rivendell/zelda/98/dofppage.html has been  
updated, and a scratchy image of Executive Alpha has been added. Feel free to go  
and laugh. This is basically a chapter on the Executive -- and, if you don't like  
reading about the "bad guys," rest assured that the next should be from Rahne's  
POV. Once again, thanks to Nute and Redhawk for helping with some of the  
minor quirks.  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
"Still sure ya wanna wait up for him? It's already ten after one."  
  
"He seemed very uncomfortable when he left. I just want to make sure he's  
all right."  
  
"Whatever. Yer turn."  
  
"Very well. Check mate."  
  
Random scowled as his companion smiled smugly, knocking over his king  
with a flick of her index finger.   
  
"Why do I even fucking bother?" he muttered as Nga Coy Manh began to  
reset the chess pieces.   
  
"Because we cannot find the Scrabble?" she offered, smiling sweetly.   
  
"I wanna go back to Battleship," Random hissed. "At least I had a  
*chance* at Battleship."  
  
"Actually," Nga said, tilting her head, "I think I hear a car. That might be  
him now." Her silver exoskeleton gleamed in the lamplight as she moved to take a  
better look out the window. "Yes, that's the limousine. He looks very tired. He's  
limping."  
  
"He always limps," Random pointed out. "He's a gimp."  
  
Nga frowned. "You shouldn't use words like that. He is our leader."  
  
"So? He's still a gimp."  
  
"Well, *I* am going to help him," Nga said, standing up. "You may remain  
here and put away the chess pieces. Good night."  
  
"Fuckin' women," Random snorted as Nga disappeared through the  
doorway. He stared at the chess set for a moment, then sighed and moved to  
follow her.   
  
He could hear her fast, quick steps already echoing down the stairwell by  
the time he reached the hall. She really did care about the wimp.  
  
As he took the steps two at a time, Random increased his mass. He disliked  
meeting Seizure in his normal state. There might be nothing he could do to  
safeguard his mind from the man, but damned if he was above a little physical  
intimidation. He was naturally a rather slim young man of medium height, but  
nothing could stop him from adding a few pounds of muscle if he felt like it.  
  
He hit the bottom of the stair just as Seizure was entering. His dress-jacket  
was slung over one arm, the other firmly wrapped around his crutch. Nga had been  
right -- he was limping more than usual, and the expression on his misshapen face  
was almost enough to draw sympathy even from Random. Seizure, never attractive  
in the first place, looked like an old man.  
  
"Seizure?" Nga said, approaching him hesitantly. "Has something  
happened?"  
  
He looked at her blankly for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he  
replied, "nothing like that. I've just had a difference of opinion, that's all." And,  
perhaps because he saw Random's expression from the shadows of the stairwell,  
he added, "I think our jobs might be threatened."  
  
Random moved forwards. Those were the magic words, as far as he was  
concerned.   
  
"What, they introduce some kinda new super-soldiers or somethin'?" he  
asked as Seizure painfully lowered himself into a nearby chair. The other man  
shook his head.  
  
"No, it's not that, exactly, but it does have to do with mutants.  
They're...how do I explain it? I saw someone there. Do any of you remember the  
Summers girl?"  
  
"What, from our first big gig? Yeah. Thought they stuck her in jeuvy or  
something."  
  
"Well, it looks like they brainwashed her instead. They're going to use her,  
and mutants like her, for tracking."  
  
"So?" Random snorted. "They got some new bloodhounds. What's that  
got to do with us?"  
  
Seizure and Nga stared at him.  
  
"Don't you see?" Nga said, "If they can program mutants to work for  
them, why would they need to pay us? We are little more than equipment to them.  
If we become outdated, they will be rid of us without a second thought."  
  
"Oh," Random said. "I meant aside from that."  
  
"What I don't understand is why I had to attend," Seizure continued. "It  
was as if they wanted me to see it."  
  
"Probably thought it would be funny," Random replied as the idea settled  
in. "Hell, what could we do? We're all registered with the government, and it ain't  
like you and Nga can hide. I got my own problems. What're we gonna do, threaten  
to quit? They know we're fucked."  
  
The three were silent for a moment. Nga, although beautiful in her own  
alien way, would never pass for human. Seizure might, but he would always be  
ridiculed and outcast for his deformities. Random could almost pass, but he needed  
the monthly genetic stabilization treatments the government provided. Merely  
quitting had some complications.  
  
"They're still perfecting the process," Seizure said at last, "and it's going  
to be a PR nightmare for the Mutant Affairs Committee. We have some time, at  
least. I'll talk to Cooper. Maybe she knows what's going on."  
  
Random snorted. "Cooper? Ya gotta be kiddin' me. She's even more  
clueless than we are."  
  
"She's our liason. We have to go through the legal channels."   
  
"Talking to her ain't gonna do jack. She's one of them whaddyacallits --  
figureheads. She doesn't even sign our paychecks."  
  
"Well, what do you expect me to do?" Seizure snapped, his tired features  
suddenly animate with anger. "Not all of us have the option of beating the hell out  
of people we don't like! If you have a better idea than going through things the  
legal way, then by all means, go *right* ahead." He threw his jacket onto the floor,  
as if it were the cause of their problems. In many ways, it was.  
  
"Stop it," Nga snapped as Random opened his mouth for a retort. "We  
accomplish nothing by fighting. We will try it Seizure's way. What other choice do  
we have?"  
  
Random scratched his chin. "I may know a couple'a people," he replied.  
"I'll see if I can work somethin' out. May take a while, though."  
  
"Then we wait," Nga said. "Perhaps it will not even be an issue. Still, we  
should tell the others."  
  
Random's lip curled a bit. "Do we have to?"  
  
"They *are* our teammates," Seizure reminded him sourly.  
  
_As if the government would ever get rid of *them,*_ Random thought.  
The Executive was divided into two groups: Alpha and Omega. The Alpha team  
consisted of himself, Seizure, and Nga, while the Omega group was composed of  
Nga's twin brother Leong, the displaced Genoshan magistrate Pipeline (a "gift"  
from the Genoshan government), and the mutant-hunter Arclight, who had left a  
terrorist group called the Marauders for better pay and job security. While team  
Alpha was used for more public missions, Omega had always been involved in  
more questionable activities. Unlike their counterparts, Omega's members all  
appeared human -- and thus could go where those in Alpha could not. Random  
disliked them on principle.  
  
"Who is going to tell them?" Nga inquired. Seizure sighed.   
  
"I will," he said. "Why not? Pipeline should still be awake and online."  
  
"We'll wait for you."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Seizure hobbled off towards the Comms Room, and Random felt a pang of  
sympathy for the man. Whatever else could be said of him, Seizure never shirked  
his duties. It was almost enough to make Random respect the man.   
  
"I'm glad I don't have *his* job," Random said aloud.   
  
"As am I," Nga sighed, picking up their leader's crumpled jacket and  
smoothing it with slightly shaking hands. "But he did not want it, either. I can see  
why, now."  
  
"What's he get outta this, anyway?" Random said, jerking a thumb towards  
the direction Seizure had gone. "He don't need stabilization treatments, and he  
wasn't coerced. He could leave anytime he wanted."  
  
"To do what?" Nga asked, looking at him oddly. "Who would hire him?  
Who would take him in? At least you and I are of sound body -- Seizure cannot  
even run."  
  
"Nah, there's gotta be somethin' else," Random said, leaning against the  
wall. He fished around in his vest pocket and removed a cigar. "I mean, there's  
always a job with the X-Twerps if you're *really* desperate. I bet they've got  
something on him."  
  
"If you say so." Nga wrinkled her nose as Random lit his cigar and took a  
drag, but continued. "But I do not think Seizure has anything to hide. He is not  
that kind of man."  
  
"Yeah? Then what's his real name?"  
  
"..."  
  
"Got ya, didn't I?"  
  
Nga snorted. "Perhaps he is just embarrassed by it, *Marshall.*"  
  
"HEY! I told you that in confidence!"  
  
"Just making a point."  
  
"Fine," Random growled. "But how much do we know about the guy?"  
  
"How much do you know about me?" Nga retorted, placing her hands on  
her hips. Random chewed his cigar thoughtfully.  
  
"I know that ya like sausage and pineapple on yer pizza," he said, "and yer  
favorite color is purple. And that the only reason you're here is because you  
promised your sister."  
  
Nga blinked. "How did you..?"  
  
"Hey, I got ears, and you ain't exactly the mercenary type. What's the deal  
with that, anyway?"  
  
Nga sighed. "Xi'an wanted Leong and I to be safe," she said, crossing her  
arms. "She thought that the best way to do this was to have us assist the  
government that threatened us. We cannot be persecuted if we are the enforcers."  
  
"Well, looks like she was wrong there," Random said. And, at Nga's  
expression, he added hastily, "Not that she coulda known, o' course."  
  
"We still do not know anything for certain," Nga sighed. "Until we get  
confirmation, we should continue to do our jobs. It costs us nothing."  
  
"Except time." Random paused, and cleared his throat. "Uh, listen. If it  
turns out we are in trouble, and I can get in touch with these people an' arrange a  
clean getaway, you're welcome to come with me. And, uh, Seizure too, if he  
wants. I'll keep ya safe, so you won't be breakin' yer promise."  
  
Nga's eyes widened. "Do you mean that?"   
  
"Well, yeah. If I'm gonna split I might as well take you guys with me. Ain't  
no skin off my nose if you wanna tag along."  
  
She smiled, and for a minute Random felt his heart give an unexpected  
lurch. Women didn't smile at him often. At least, not in the good way.  
  
"Random, you--"   
  
CRASH.  
  
"What the fuck was that?" Random yelped as Nga nearly jumped out of her  
exoskeleton.   
  
"It came from Comms," she said. She took off in that direction, calling,  
"Seizure? Are you all right?"  
  
_Thanks a lot, boss,_ Random thought sourly, but followed her. The  
hallways were dark, but the Communication Room's lights were on. Random's  
combat boots thudded dully against the tiles, while Nga's small feet beat a swift,  
sharp staccato.   
  
"Seizure, are you all right?" Nga repeated as they entered the Comms  
Room. Then she gasped.  
  
Seizure was kneeling on the floor, the vid-call monitor's screen in shards  
around him. His left hand was bloodied; he rested it on his knees, as if he didn't  
even notice it. He didn't seem to hear his teammates enter.   
  
"Those bastards," he was growling to himself as Nga and Random picked  
their way around the broken glass. "Those bastards. They knew. They already  
knew, and they never told us!"  
  
"Knew what?" Nga asked, kneeling down beside her. The glass rasped  
ineffectually against her shelled body.  
  
"About the Hound program!" Seizure said, shaking his head. "Damn it!  
God DAMN it!" With one swift, angry sweep of his arm he slammed his crutch  
into a nearby chair, throwing it onto its side. Nga tried to calm him down.  
  
"Perhaps they did not have clearance to share the information," she  
suggested, placing a restraining arm on his shoulder. He ignored it.  
  
"Bullshit," Random snorted, picking up the fallen chair and sitting in it  
backwards. "They knew exactly what they were doin'." _I wouldn't put it past the  
twerps to hold out on us just 'cause they wanted to see us squirm when the time  
came, either. Well, I ain't givin' them the satisfaction._  
  
"Random's right, Nga," Seizure said, shaking his head. "This is the sort of  
thing that could jeopardize our jobs, but Pipeline has just informed me that he's  
known about it for a year. A year! Almost as long as the Executive's existed!"  
  
"But they could not have thought it was important, or Leong would have  
told me," Nga insisted, standing up. "He is my brother. He would not do anything  
he thought might harm me."  
  
"Maybe," Random said doubtfully. These days Leong was running with  
Arclight, the Omega's team leader. He'd changed from the boy Random had met  
when the Executive had formed, and not in a good way. Too opportunistic, that  
one. Too opportunistic by far. And, from the look in Seizure's eyes, he wasn't the  
only one who thought so.  
  
"I do not believe you two," Nga said, disgusted. "You're seeing enemies  
where there are none. My brother is not evil."  
  
"We're just preparin' for the worst," Random assured her, although even  
he could feel the lie in his voice. "I don't wanna be caught with my pants down.  
How 'bout you?"  
  
"Trust me, Random, no one wants that," Seizure said, with heavy irony.  
He picked himself off the ground slowly, and winced when he tried to move his left  
hand.   
  
"Maybe I did get carried away," he confessed, shuffling over to a wall for  
support, "but I still think it's a threat worth investigating. Nga, please ask Leong  
what possessed him to keep this from you. Random, you...look into your contacts,  
I don't care. I need some sleep."  
  
"Hold on," Nga said, holding up a hand, "I will fetch the first aid kit and  
dress your wound."   
  
"All right." Seizure sighed as she disappeared into the darkness of the  
hallway. His face looked thin in the dim light of the Comms room, and as he  
attempted to take a seat at the table in the middle of the room Random could see  
the pain and fatigue etched on his face.  
  
"How much sleep you been gettin' lately?" Random asked, turning his  
chair to face his leader. Seizure snorted.  
  
"Honestly?" he replied. "I don't know. Four, five hours a night what with  
all the paperwork and bureaucratic crap I have to deal with. And tomorrow I have  
to get up early for the m...never mind. It's not important."  
  
"Yeah, it is. You're gettin' twitchy." Random removed his cigar from his  
mouth and blew a ring of smoke into the air. "Bein' a suspicious bastard's fine, but  
you're gettin' downright paranoid."  
  
"But you agreed with me."  
  
"That's because *I'm* downright paranoid. An' that's fine for me, because  
I ain't leadin' this outfit. But you *are,* an I don't want my boss popping  
amphetamines when he's supposed to be makin' an important decision."  
  
Seizure blinked. "How did you..?"  
  
Random rolled his eyes. "Why do you people keep sayin' that every time I  
state the friggin' obvious? What do you guys think I am, braindead?"  
  
"No, it's not that, I thought I just..."  
  
"What, kept it a secret? Seizure, you can't even dry-swallow the damn  
things. You gotta carry a fuckin' water bottle around with you during missions. By  
the way, are *you* braindead? In case you ain't been payin' attention, you're not  
in that great a shape anyway."  
  
"Why do you care?" Seizure retorted, massaging his damaged hand. "You  
don't nag well, Random."  
  
"Because if you fuck up during a mission, we're the ones that're gonna end  
up payin'," Random growled, leaning forward.  
  
Seizure slammed his hand against the tabletop. "Do you think I do it for  
fun? I do it to stay awake!"  
  
"So get a friggin' aide de camp or whatever the hell they call those little  
bitchboys that do all the grunt work. Voi-friggin'-la. Spare time."  
  
"It's not that simple--"  
  
"Are you two fighting *again?*"  
  
Nga stood in the doorway, the first aid kit under one arm. She looked less  
than amused.  
  
"Just havin' a nice civil conversation with the boss," Random said, sliding  
back in his seat. She gave him a dubious look, but seemed to take him at his word.  
  
"Let's see your hand," Nga said, sitting down beside Seizure. Mutely, their  
leader extended the wounded appendage for her inspection. He endured her  
chiding as she applied the iodine and gauze in silence, and after a few minutes  
Random thought he had actually fallen asleep.   
  
"Done," Nga said as she finished applying the tape. "It doesn't look as if  
you've punctured anything vital, but try not to move it much until it heals."  
  
"I will," Seizure replied, opening his eyes. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I  
am going to my room. Thank you, Nga. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
The two mutants watched their leader limp out in silence. Random growled  
and stubbed his cigar out on the tabletop.   
  
"He's really pissing me off," Random said, pushing himself out of his chair.  
Nga sighed.  
  
"I am worried about him," she replied. "He seems very irritable lately."  
  
Random wanted to say "Probably because he's on speed half the time," but  
held his tongue. Despite his frequent battles with the man, he had to respect  
Seizure for trying to do his best for the team. Of course, his best had been pretty  
pathetic so far, but at least he cared.   
  
"It's probably stress," he said instead. "He needs to get outta this rat-race."  
  
"As do we all." Nga gathered up the spare dressings and threw them away.  
She stretched her arms over her head, yawning. "I think it is time to call it a night.  
You?"  
  
"Ah, I got some calls to make," Random said. He reached out and rubbed  
her silvery carapace. "Get some sleep, kid."  
  
She smiled faintly. "You too, Marshall."  
  
"Don't *call* me that."  
  
But Nga was already on her way out, laughing softly as she went. Random  
shook his head, lips slightly quirked, and started to pick up the broken glass.   
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Empty Men 4/?  
Tapestry, malfam@mindspring.net  
  
Disclaimer: Marvel characters are Marvel's, mine belong to me. (I got tired of listing  
everyone...)  
  
Author's Note: Ah, the Rahne chapter. Thanks to Denise Keppel and Persephone  
Kore for looking over pieces of it. Also, the companion page has been changed to  
http://www.dreamwater.org/tapestry/dofppage.html with a nice little pic of the   
Manhattan team. I've had it with Fortunecity.   
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Well, here we go again," Sam sighed as he locked the last door. "Is everyone  
set?"   
  
"Aye, Sam," Rahne replied as she shifted Brand. The girl had fallen asleep on  
her hip, and she was getting heavy.   
  
"Our stuff is all packed," Chase said from his spot by the wall. "Glenn's  
getting in the last of it." He tried to stifle a yawn. It was six in the morning, and well  
before his preferred rising time. Rahne could smell the fatigue rolling off him like a  
fog.  
  
"Occh, I'll miss this place," she said, glancing at the water-stained walls.  
"Aye, it was small, but it was home."  
  
"Yeah, ain't nothin' beats a direct line ta the sewers," Sam agreed, smiling  
wanly. "But Ah know what ya mean. Five months o' livin' in a place makes ya kinda  
fond of it, ya know?"  
  
"Aye. An' the Underground goes through such trouble tae do 'em up, too."  
Rahne always felt badly about leaving these places; it was difficult enough to host the  
occasional mutant on the run, but the stress of having the Manhattan branch of the X-  
Men live in your basement for a prolonged period of time was almost beyond  
comprehension. For the safety of their current host, a young stewardess who only  
returned home very occasionally, the mutants were obliged to depend on a series of  
tunnels rather than the front door. Fortunately, the process of creating the tunnels had  
been greatly simplified by the appearance of Chase, and no major reconstruction had  
been necessary.  
  
_How long are we tae live like this?_ Rahne wondered as she rocked a softly  
murmuring Brand. _Scamperin' from place tae place like mice, losin' more and more  
friends all the while...I dinna ken how much longer I can bear it. Please, merciful God,  
let this be over soon._  
  
"This is the last box," Glenn said as he pushed a crate full of delicate  
equipment through the door. He paused to wipe his hands on his jeans. "Has anyone  
seen Danny? I woke 'im up, but I haven't seen 'im since."  
  
"I'll find him," Rahne volunteered. She passed the still sleeping Brand to her  
father.   
  
"Poor gel isn't used t' bein' up so early," Glenn said as he brushed the reddish  
hair from his child's face. "Probably better she sleeps through it, though."  
  
"Aye," Rahne replied. She wasn't the only one who worried about the effects  
their constant moving had on Glenn's children. Still, their parents had railed against  
placing them in the care of anyone else in case the government decided they needed a  
bargaining chip against them, or in the event of some new nation wide "mutant  
acquisition" act. Rahne found it difficult to blame them after what had happened to  
poor Rachel.  
  
"I'll be right back," Rahne told Sam, and shifted into her transitional form to  
sharpen her sense of smell. Daniel's scent was strong here, but he wasn't in the  
basement. He must have gone upstairs.  
  
Rahne sighed. Of the two children, Daniel was the one with the clearest  
memory of life before President Creed. He rarely complained, but Rahne could tell he  
disliked the life of a fugitive. He tended to gravitate towards places of "normalcy" --  
which were, of course, supposed to be off limits.   
  
Rahne took the stairs calmly, following Daniel's scent. He seemed agitated, as  
well he might be. His mother was missing, after all, and the move just added fuel to  
the fire. He hadn't even bothered to close the basement door behind him.  
  
"Danny, lad?" Rahne called as she poked her head through the doorway. "Are  
ye up here?"  
  
"Yeah," came the soft reply. Rahne let her natural form reassert itself and  
padded into the kitchen. Daniel wasn't there, but in the living room beyond, curled up  
on their host's couch and staring out the bay window into the darkened streets.   
  
"Ye know ye shouldna be up here, Danny," Rahne chided gently, taking a seat  
beside him. He snorted in a noncommital way.   
  
"We're about ready tae get goin'," Rahne continued, folding her hands on her  
lap. "Ms. Sefton'll be here in a few minutes to take us to our new home."  
  
"It's not home," Daniel said, still refusing to look at her. "Home's in  
Oklahoma. So're my friends. I don't wanna move anymore. I wanna go home."  
  
"Occh, Danny, ye know ye canna," Rahne said, laying a hand on his shoulder.  
"It's nae safe. Ye barely got out in time as it was."  
  
"But moving is stupid," Daniel snapped, turning to stare at her with accusing  
blue eyes. "They're gonna catch us anyway, like they caught Mom."  
  
Rahne frowned. "Is that what's botherin' ye? Danny, we'll yet yuir mum  
back--"  
  
"No you won't. She's...they're gonna do something bad to her. I can tell."  
  
Rahne's eyes widened. _Could he be manifestin' some power, or is he just  
worried about his mum?_ she wondered. _Nae way of bein' sure now. I'd better tell  
Sam all the same, just tae be safe._  
  
"We'll find her, Danny," Rahne said, stroking his short, soft hair. "Ye must  
have faith in that. I know things seem terrible, but we'll pull through. Things will get  
better."  
  
"Everyone always *says* that!" Daniel cried, jerking away from her. "I want  
things better *now!* I don't wanna live in basements anymore, and I don't wanna  
move all the time! I want Mom back, and then I wanna go *home!*" He started to  
cry, his thin body wracked with sobs. Rahne put her arms around him, and this time  
he didn't pull away.   
  
"Shh, shh," Rahne murmured, holding him close. "It's a'right, Danny, it's  
a'right." She knew it was a lie, and she hated herself for it, but right now it was the  
only thing she had to give him.   
  
_How many babes will grow up like Danny?_ she thought as she tried to  
soothe him as best he could. _Without parents, without even a home tae call their  
own? How many will die before they even have a chance at life?_ She held the boy  
tighter. _Nay, I willna allow it. This is what we're fightin' for. We canna afford tae  
lose._  
  
She released Daniel when his sobs turned into sniffles. His small body had  
grown hot and sweaty from the outburst, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of  
his salty tears. She allowed him a minute to wipe his eyes before standing up again.  
  
"C'mon," she murmured, brushing a hand through his hair. "Let's get ye  
downstairs. The sooner we're out o' here there sooner we c'n start the search for yuir  
mum. We won't have tae worry about bein' found out while we look for her.  
A'right?"  
  
He passed a hand across his runny nose, sniffed, and nodded silently. Rahne  
could tell he still wasn't reassured, but at least he'd gotten it out of his system. She  
took his hand and led him back towards the basement stairs.   
  
As they were about to enter the kitchen they almost ran into Chase, who was  
coming the other way.   
  
"There you are," he said, looking first at Rahne, then at Daniel. "Daytripper's  
here. We were starting to get worried."  
  
"We were just havin' a bit of a talk," Rahne replied. "Has she been waitin'  
long?"  
  
Chase flipped back his blond bangs. "Not really. She's already taken the  
equipment, so it's just us left."  
  
The woman glanced down at Daniel. "Are ye ready, Danny?"  
  
"I guess," Daniel sighed. He slipped out of her grip and vanished down the  
stairs. Chase frowned.  
  
"Is he all right?" he asked, jerking a thumb after the child as Rahne passed a  
hand down her face.   
  
"Aye," she answered, "as well as c'n be expected. He misses his mum, among  
other things. It willna be easy without her on watch. I still dinna ken how it  
happened... "  
  
"The feeling's mutual." Chase rubbed his forehead, grimacing. "But we can't  
let ourselves be distracted from our mission. That's...that's when things start falling  
apart." He seemed to sway a bit, but steadied himself by casually placing his hand  
against the wall. Unfortunately for him, Rahne's sharp ears could detect the slight  
rasp to his suddenly rapid breathing.   
  
"Are ye all right?" she asked, reaching out as it to touch him. He smiled faintly  
and moved away, out of her reach.  
  
"Just tired," he replied. "I'm always a little rocky this early in the morning.  
Never mind; it's time to move." He turned and motioned towards the door with a  
courtly bow, waiting for her to proceed.  
  
Rahne said nothing as she walked down the stairs, but she couldn't help  
worrying about what she had seen. Chase had been examined numerous times, but  
nothing conclusive had been found. At first some of the team had suspected him of  
being a hypochondriac, but he never avoided his work and generally slipped away to  
sleep instead of complaining. If he needed or took medication, Rahne never heard  
about it; in fact, he had been a great help in procuring medication for others. True, he  
may have disliked offensive missions, but Rahne was willing to forgive him his  
reluctance in exchange for the peace of mind his tranquilizers gave her during those  
long, hard nights when Sam wasn't around.   
  
Sam was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, looking slightly worried.  
Although his status as an External prevented him from aging, lines creased his  
forehead and the corners of his eyes. Leadership came naturally to him, but lately  
Rahne wondered if the strain was beginning to take its toll.  
  
"Hey there, darlin'," Sam said, a smile flickering across his face at the sight of  
her. "Ready ta go?"  
  
Rahne looked around the basement. Emptied of the furniture and personal  
effects the space seemed so much larger, so much more desolate. It wasn't their home  
anymore, and it would never be again.   
  
"Aye," Rahne replied. She glanced over her shoulder. "And ye, Chase?"  
  
"Been ready all morning," the boy assured her. "Let's go."  
  
"You know, I really should make you people start paying for my services."  
  
The scent of strawberries and incense drifted into the room, and suddenly  
Amanda Sefton was there with them. She was dressed in jeans and a button-up  
blouse, her long blonde hair tied back in a French braid. She was smiling.   
  
"We couldn't afford ya, 'Manda," Sam chuckled. "Sorry 'bout the short  
notice, by the way."  
  
"It's all right, you didn't interrupt anything," Amanda replied. "I already sent  
off Glenn and the kids. I threw in some sparkly stuff for Brand, but I still feel bad  
about having to wake her up."  
  
"Just consider it payback for all the times she woke the house up with her  
cryin'," the team leader grinned. "Ah guess we're all set here, so we can go whenever  
you're ready."  
  
Amanda cracked her knuckles. "All right, then. Here we go."  
  
Rahne slipped her hands around Sam's arm as a warm light began to suffuse  
her body. She was no stranger to the touch of Amanda's magic -- the two women had  
served in Excalibur for some time, and she'd long since grown used to it. Still, magic  
always reminded her of her former teammate Illyana Rasputin, the teleporter and  
sorceress. Although the two women's styles had been completely different, Rahne  
would never forget the feeling that had always accompanied Illyana's use of dark  
magic.   
  
_Silly girl,_ Rahne berated herself as she squeezed her eyes shut against the  
light of the teleportation spell, _the poor lass is long dead, an' it's nae right tae think  
poorly of her for what she couldna control._ And then she let herself be caught in the  
spell, and that was the last of her thoughts.   
  
The air hummed with energy, and there suddenly she was overtaken by a sense  
of disorientation. She was falling, falling, and she couldn't find her husband's hand--  
  
Then the light faded, and she was standing with the others in a large, bare  
room, lit only by a single, naked lightbulb.   
  
"Here we are," Amanda said, brushing off her hands. "It's a condemned  
apartment complex this time, I'm afraid, but the amenities are all intact. Glenn has the  
details already."  
  
"We're obliged, 'Manda," Sam said, holding out a hand. "Ah don't know  
what we'd do without ya."  
  
"Glad to help," she said, shaking his hand. She turned to Rahne. "I'm in no  
hurry -- how about you and I make breakfast? The Underground actually installed a  
kitchen area this time."  
  
"Tha' sounds wonderful," Rahne said, grinning. Their last hideout hadn't  
included a range and oven in the basement, so they'd had to go upstairs every time a  
meal had to be cooked. Rahne had hated infringing on their hostess' privacy, but it  
had been a necessary evil. Now, however...  
  
"I'll show you the way while the boys unpack," Amanda offered. "I stocked  
the 'fridge before I picked you up."  
  
"Occh, Amanda, ye've gone tae far too much trouble..."  
  
"Nonsense. Actually, I should be thanking you for getting me out of the house  
today. Kurt's sick."  
  
"Sick? Nothin' serious, I hope. If we lose him, too..."  
  
"No, just the flu, but he's a miserable patient. The last I saw of him was a blue  
tail sticking out from under a pile of blankets. I left him with orange juice, a hot water  
bottle, and a box of tissues. He'll be fine."  
  
As they talked Amanda led Rahne through her new home. The place was  
cleaner than the last despite Amanda's warning that the house above was condemned,  
and Rahne wondered who had volunteered to repair it. The light conversation  
reminded her of better times, before everything had gone dark and wrong.  
  
"How's wee Ginny?" Rahne inquired as they entered the kitchenette. Amanda  
laughed.  
  
"Not so wee anymore," the sorceress replied. "She just turned eight last  
month."   
  
"No! Has it been sae long a'ready?"  
  
"Don't remind me. I feel absolutely ancient these days. But anyway, how do  
you like the kitchen?"   
  
Rahne looked around. The floor and walls were bare concrete, and the ceiling  
was a mass of exposed pipes and wires, but it was equipped with sink, oven,  
refrigerator and range, just as promised. There were even makeshift cabinets installed  
above a small table that had been pushed against the wall.   
  
"'Tis wonderful...an' sae much more than we're used tae," Rahne breathed,  
eyes wide. "Occh, I dinna know how we're tae leave this place when the time comes  
to move again..."  
  
"Well, it used to be a way station and hostel for the Underground," Amanda  
explained, starting towards the refrigerator. "It wasn't maintained well, though, so  
Kurt got some people here to fix it up for you. Hopefully you won't have to move  
again for some time." She opened the fridge. "I brought Apfelstrudel, Kasebrot and  
Blutwurst." And then, at Rahne's questioning look, "Mother went a little crazy when  
I was visiting Ginny."   
  
"Ah. So, is she likin' Germany, then?"   
  
"Ginny? Oh, yes. She loves the caravan. I think Mother's starting to teach her  
sorcery, though. I asked her not to, but...well, Muttie's always done exactly what she  
wants, when she wants."  
  
Rahne bit her lip as Amanda moved to the cabinets to get the cutlery. She had  
never spoken to Margali Szardos, but she had encountered her once. At the time, the  
sorceress' hands had been welded to the head of her teammate Douglock and she had  
been in the process of communing with a demon buried beneath the streets of  
London. Rahne was understandably uncomfortable with the concept of one of her  
favorite "nieces" being fostered to the woman.  
  
Still...Kurt and Amanda both insisted their mother had fully recovered from  
the ordeal, and anyway, her mystic powers had long since been destroyed. So perhaps  
there was no harm in it after all.  
  
"Rahne," Amanda said after a moment, still turned towards the cabinet,  
"there's something I wanted to talk to you about."  
  
Amanda's tone had changed; it was lower, more subdued. Rahne could feel  
the other woman's worry.  
  
"Aye?" she replied cautiously, remaining where she was as Amanda extracted  
a serving platter from the cupboard. _Occh, please dinna be askin' what I think ye  
are. Not now, when everything was going so wonderfully..._  
  
"I went to Colorado the other week," Amanda said. She placed the loaf of  
bread on the tray and turned back to the smaller woman, face blank and unreadable.  
"I talked to Moonstar."  
  
"Dani..?" Rahne felt a rush of mingled interest and dread. Danielle Moonstar  
was one of her oldest friends among the X-Men, and one of the most observant. The  
fact that she hadn't seen Danielle in more than a year might not mean as much as one  
would think.  
  
"Yes." Amanda settled her hands on the countertop and leaned back, her  
casual stance belying what Rahne knew was going to be the topic of conversation.  
"Rahne...are you still having nightmares?"  
  
"Aye, sometimes." What was the use in denying it? Danielle knew. Danielle  
always knew. It was just sheer luck that she hadn't had the opportunity to nag Rahne  
before now.   
  
Amanda sighed. "Does Sam know?"  
  
"Aye." Truthfully, it would have been harder for him *not* to know. Rahne  
had long ago developed the tendency to shapeshift in times of stress, and when the  
nightmares were upon her the ensuing howls could wake the entire complex.  
  
It had been two years ago, right after Creed's inauguration. Rahne had been  
on Muir Island with her guardian, Moira MacTaggert, and the visiting Sean Cassidy.  
She'd been in wolf-form that day, loping around the island and enjoying the cool,  
crisp weather even as she strained with nose, ears and eyes to find the slightest sign of  
danger. Something had been off that day, she'd known it, but she couldn't think of  
why. So she prowled the island, waiting...  
  
Then, when she was almost at past the point where the two crescents of the  
island joined, she had suddenly been possessed by the urge to return. She'd started to  
run without even knowing why, and had been almost halfway back when the  
explosion had occurred.   
  
Strangely, Rahne couldn't remember how she'd made it the rest of the way to  
the complex. All she remembered was the cloud of dust that coated her throat and  
stung her eyes. Her claws were not nearly strong enough to lift the heavy metal and  
concrete that buried her guardian, and even her nose was rendered all but useless by  
the confusion of smells around her.   
  
And then, against all odds, her desperate cries had finally been answered.  
Moira's voice reached her sensitive ears, and Rahne had finally been able to find her.  
From beneath the rubble Moira had instructed her ward try and find some undamaged  
phone or radio to use to call for help. Rahne had done so, but it had cost her precious  
time -- Moira's voice was much weaker by the time she returned. She did her best to  
keep Moira alert and conscious, but the pauses between the questions and the  
responses grew longer and longer. By the time the X-Men arrived -- a mere half an  
hour after they had been summoned -- there were no more answers from beneath the  
stone and metal. Rahne had stood by helplessly as Rogue and Beast had done their  
best to unearth the trapped scientist, but the process was painstakingly slow. They  
uncovered Sean in a matter of minutes, bloodied and unconscious, his left hand  
completely severed and his right eye put out by a piece of jagged metal, but alive.   
  
Moira had taken much longer. With each chunk of rubble that was shifted  
Rahne felt her heart constrict another inch, until she was sure that it must not be  
beating at all. And then, almost forty minutes after their arrival, the X-Men had found  
Moira MacTaggert: legs crushed, clothing soaked with blood, and dead for at least  
the last half an hour.   
  
She hadn't cried. Rahne remembered that quite clearly some time after the  
fact. She'd just knelt beside her guardian's body, breathing in the scent of sweat and  
blood and bowels, feeling nothing. No pain. No anger. She felt nothing. Nothing at  
all.   
  
And now, two years later, the memories of that day still haunted her -- the  
smell of Moira's blood on her hands above all...  
  
And Danielle knew. Their psilink, defunct for so many years, had been  
renewed during Rahne's recuperation. Her friends from the New Mutants, Dani and  
Sam...even poor, dead Roberto DaCosta had come to see her. All but Rictor, off in  
some other world with his friend, Shatterstar. Had it been because he hadn't known,  
or because he no longer cared? Rahne didn't know. Perhaps she never would, with  
Rictor missing. But she refused to dwell on it; all that mattered was that she'd had  
friends to help her through the time, and so only herself to blame that the dreams  
continued, even now.  
  
"Kiddo, you need help," Amanda said, pushing herself away from the counter.  
"I know you were seeing Professor Xavier for it before he...died, but you should have  
told Kurt that the nightmares were still going on. He doesn't want you to keep  
suffering like that. No one does."  
  
"Why does it matter what I feel?" Rahne asked. "We've more important  
things tae worry about. I canna afford tae leave -- not now. The little ones...they need  
someone tae look after them while their mum's gone, and I canna desert them or the  
team just because I'm havin' nightmares. Anyway, I've been doin' just fine sae far."  
  
Amanda sighed. "If you don't want help, I can't make you ask for it. But  
peace of mind isn't a sin."  
  
_How would ye know?_ Rahne thought, turning away. Amanda had been  
lucky. She and Kurt had been attacked, true, but Amanda had been able to cast the  
illusion of death on both of them; she and her husband had escaped with nothing more  
serious than fleshwounds. And Amanda had never been as close with the X-Men as  
Rahne had; except for a short stint in Excalibur and on Muir Island, she was a reserve  
member. She'd never had to watch people she'd known for years die, literally inches  
away from salvation. How could Rahne explain that suppressing the memory of that  
day would be like betraying Moira?  
  
_Lady Moira died, an' I just stood by an' watched. How can she tell me I  
shouldna feel guilty about it?_  
  
"I ken what ye're sayin', Amanda, but I'm a'right, truly," Rahne said at last.  
She brushed past Amanda and began to slice bread. The sorceress just shook her  
head.  
  
"All right, Rahne," she said. "If you insist." Amanda began to slice the  
sausage, and that was the end of the conversation.  
  
Some awkward minutes later Chase ambled in, carrying a box of paper towels.  
He took one look at the two of them and placed the box by the door before beating a  
hasty retreat. Luckily, the sandwiches were finished by that point, and Rahne had a  
reasonable excuse to leave the kitchen. She excused herself and went in search for her  
teammates, and almost immediately ran into Chase.  
  
"Oh, hullo, Chaser," Rahne stumbled. "Breakfast is on, if ye'd like..."  
  
"Oh? Thanks." He scratched his neck nervously, then said, "Rahne, is  
everything all right? You and Amanda looked very...tense."  
  
"She was askin' about muh problem."  
  
"Ah." Chase had asked her about her dreams once, and only once. He hadn't  
pried further once she'd balked, and she respected him for that. Perhaps he, too, had  
memories he would rather keep to himself.   
  
"How are you doing on those pills, anyway?" Chase inquired, sticking his  
hands in his pockets. "I'm going to make a drug-run this week. I'm going to get some  
antibiotics, just in case."  
  
Rahne shook her head. "Nay, we've got enough, and I havena had a night  
quite tha' bad fer a while anyway. I suppose they're nae a good idea anyway." The  
first part of this was frankly a lie, and she did feel a bit of shame about it, but she  
didn't want him worrying about her.   
  
"So I've been told. But I am glad you're doing better. If you start needing  
them again just ask, all right? It's no problem."  
  
She smiled. "Thank ye, Chase, but dinna worry about it. Now, off ye go."  
  
"Yes, yes..."  
  
Chase ambled off towards the kitchen, and Rahne resumed her search for the  
rest of the team. She found Sam and Glenn in a smallish room that already included  
three bunkbeds and several boxes -- probably where Glenn and his family would be  
staying, as Brand had already been tucked into a bed and Daniel was perched on a top  
bunk, kicking his feet as his father and Sam unpacked.   
  
"Breakfast is ready," she said, lingering in the threshold. Sam looked up from  
resheeting a bed and smiled.   
  
"Obliged, Rahnie," he said, straightening. His wife smiled wryly.   
  
"Really, 'tis Amanda who's responsible," she replied. "But it does look verra  
good."  
  
"Aunt Amanda?" Daniel said, bolting to attention. "Is it German stuff?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Cool!" He slid off the bed and was out the door almost immediately. His  
father chuckled.   
  
"I'd better go an' save some for Brand before he eats it all," Glenn said. He  
indicated his sleeping daughter, who had buried herself under the covers so that only a  
small tuft of reddish hair remained visible. "I think I'd best let the gel sleep for now.  
Thanks for the help, Sam."  
  
"No problem, but Ah expect some help unloadin' the gear later," Sam  
grinned. Glenn laughed and went to follow his son.   
  
"They seem ta be copin' well," Sam remarked as he watched them go.  
"Better'n Ah would, Ah think. But appearances can be deceivin'. What's your  
impression?"  
  
"Danny's...as well as c'n be expected," Rahne sighed, slipping into the room.  
"The poor lad. Occh, Sam, I'm sae tired..."  
  
Sam drew her close and embraced her. Rahne wrapped her arms around him,  
breathing in the strong, comforting scent of him, and relaxed. He smelled of sweat  
and earth -- like safety and comfort. She sighed and pillowed her face against his  
chest.  
  
"Lemme guess," Sam murmured, stroking her long red hair. "Amanda asked  
ya 'bout the dreams, didn't she?"  
  
"Aye."   
  
"She just wants ta help, Rahnie. We all do."  
  
"I know, but...there's sae much more important things tae be done. I'm nae  
tha' important. Nae compared tae everythin' else."  
  
"Yes, you are." Sam bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "But it's your  
choice, Rahne. Ah won't ask ya ta do anythin' ya ain't ready for."  
  
"I know, an' I thank ye." She sighed and pulled away. "We should go tae  
breakfast now, I s'ppose."  
  
"As mah lady wishes." Sam smiled gently and extended an arm.   
  
"Ye're terrible, Sam Guthrie," Rahne said, shaking her head, but she slipped  
her arm around his. He grinned and kissed her.  
  
"And you married me," he replied. "Now, let's get that breakfast."  
  
Rahne nodded, and allowed Sam to escort her to the kitchen. She was still  
troubled, but somehow, with her husband's arm around her, it didn't seem quite so  
bad.   
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Empty Men 5/?  
  
Disclaimer: Marvel chars belong to Marvel, others belong to me. Incidentally, Allison  
Crestmere was Magma, or Amara Aquilla, if you were more into the New Mutants  
than you were into X-Force, like I was.  
  
Author's Note: Now we're getting into the fun part. I've updated  
http://www.dreamwater.org/tapestry/dofppage.html again, just a bit, but removed the  
images (except for the plaque made by Matt Nute) because I'll be moving them to  
their own gallery page soon. White pencil sketches on black backgrounds really don't  
go well...   
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_This is going to take forever,_ Manuel thought, wiping the sweat from his  
brow. He despised trying to turn telepaths; they were especially sensitive to the  
slightest change in their mental state, and there was nothing worse than trying to  
preform a complete emotional overhaul on someone who knew what you were doing.  
  
He pressed the button on the intercom that was wired to the control room.  
"I'm going to take a break," Manuel said. "I will resume work in ten minutes."  
  
"Acknowledged," crackled the distant voice. Manuel sighed and sat down.   
  
:Thanks for the breather,: Dawn sent. Manuel snorted.   
  
:Who said it was for you?: he asked. :Dios, you couldn't ease up any?:  
  
:I said I understood what you were doing, not that I would let you do it.  
Come on, Manny, you know me better than that.:  
  
:I suppose so.: He reached for the jug of water beside him and poured himself  
a glass. :Water, senorita?:  
  
:Yes, please.:   
  
Manuel held the cup to her lips and let her drink before refilling it for himself.  
It seemed only fair, after all, as she was the one strapped to the table.   
  
:This reminds me of when I was in traction after the Shadow King affair,:  
Dawn continued absently. :Both legs and six ribs...:  
  
:It served you right for rushing in,: Manuel replied. :Especially with Rasputin  
and Braddock under Farouk's control.:  
  
Dawn snorted. :You have no sense of adventure, Manuel.:   
  
:Why enter a fight when I can get others to do it for me?: He swirled the water  
in his glass. :Besides, empathy isn't much good against a psi-shielded mutant with the  
ability to grind your skull into a fine pulp.:  
  
:Oh, you have to admit it was exciting.: The corners of her mouth turned  
upwards almost imperceptibly. :You, me, the Professor, Ms. Frost, Jono, Psylocke  
and Phoenix against the mind-controlled X-Men.:  
  
:Only if you find the concept of certain death exciting, Embers. I have never  
found the life of an X-Man particularly appealing.:  
  
:That's a pity. We could have used you.:   
  
:As what, a punching bag? They never liked me, senorita.:  
  
:You'd have grown on them.:  
  
:I find that doubtful.: Which was an understatement, as his tenure at Muir  
Island had proven. The fact that several of the X-Men had a previous and unpleasant  
relationship with him while he had been involved in the Hellions probably hadn't  
helped, either. It hadn't been an easy time for him.   
  
Still, he had to admit that it was pleasant to talk to someone again, even if it  
was about memories that he didn't particularly like. It had been a long time since  
someone had spoken to him willingly, save for Shaw and Ahab, and those discussions  
were rarely enjoyable. It was a slice of comfort in an indifferent world.  
  
:This is silly,: Dawn sent after a moment. :I can't even look at you from this  
angle. Astral plane?:  
  
:If you wish,: Manuel replied. He saw Dawn's eyes roll upwards, and prepared  
himself for a momentary feeling of disorientation. He was not a psi in the traditional  
sense, but he had always associated with them somewhat better than other mutants.  
They tended to be better shielded, for one. This being the case, he was well used to  
most of their tricks.  
  
Still, the astral plane always took his breath away. It was like everything he  
sensed made real. The mingled emotions of the collective human consciousness  
drifted past him like a psychedelic mist, cool and calm. It was beautiful, in its way,  
and oddly reassuring. The face of the world might change, but the astral plane would  
endure.  
  
:That's better,: Dawn said, stretching her arms over her head. Her astral form  
glowed against the fog of emotions, blue fading to white. She wore no armor; she  
trusted him.  
  
:If you say so,: he sighed. :Look, Embers. You can prolong this as much as  
you'd like, but the fact remains that in five minutes I return to my job, and you to  
your position of victim. You can't pretend otherwise.:  
  
She gave him a look, and for a moment he saw a shadow of that old  
obstinance cross her face. Just for a moment it seemed they were once more on Muir  
Island, and Dawn was getting ready to smack him.  
  
:I'm not pretending,: she said at last, exasperation pouring from her in waves  
of yellow smoke. :I just don't see why we can't make the most of the time we have.  
Do you want me to be angry? Do you want me to fight you? Tell me, what's the use  
in that? It won't change anything.:  
  
:It would make *me* feel better,: Manuel retorted. :Somehow I don't get the  
sense that you take this seriously.:  
  
She stiffened. :I have a husband and two children,: Dawn snapped, glaring at  
him. :Trust me, I'm taking this *extremely* seriously. But until I find a way out or my  
teammates come for me, there's nothing I can do about it.:  
  
:So you've decided having a cordial little discussion with me is the best way to  
pass the time? Believe me, senorita, you have no idea what Ahab is capable of. He is  
not the man you knew.:  
  
:I know, Manny, but he can't be totally gone. The Professor thought there  
might be some lingering damage from the Shadow King's manipulation, but Dr.  
Campbell didn't stay with us long enough to follow up on it. Maybe if I can talk to  
him...:  
  
Manuel actually laughed. :You think anything can be solved by talking, don't  
you? Oh, that is too good. Xavier must have loved you.:  
  
:Just because the X-Men were formed primarily to deal with aggressive  
mutants doesn't mean we don't know how to be diplomatic,: Dawn retorted.   
  
:Point taken,: Manuel replied, rolling his eyes, :but trust me, that won't work  
with Ahab. He's immune to projective empathy and telepathy, and surely you must  
have felt the sheer hatred he has for us. Nothing is going to change his mind.:  
  
:Everyone can change, Manny,: Dawn persisted. :You did.:  
  
:No, I didn't. I just learned to better control my powers.:  
  
:Whatever you say, Manny.: And, much to his disgust, she smirked and tapped  
him on the nose.  
  
:You truly nauseate me, Embers,: Manuel informed her, curling his lip. She  
only laughed.  
  
:Someday you'll appreciate all I've done for you,: she said.   
  
:And these are?: he inquired.  
  
:Shall I make a li--erk.: Dawn's face contorted with pain, and she staggered  
backwards a step. Manuel started towards her, alarmed.  
  
:Senorita, what is it?: he asked, extending a hand. She started to open her  
mouth, but before she could answer the astral plane seemed to dissolve around them  
like a Salvador Dali masterpiece. Suddenly they were back in reality -- and they  
weren't alone.   
  
Ahab was beside Dawn's prone body, one hand around her throat. Not tightly  
enough to completely cut off circulation, but enough to make her struggle to breathe.  
He looked, to put it mildly, displeased.  
  
"I know I said you were free to use your off hours at your discretion,  
Manuel," the man said, eyes narrowed, "but telepathic conversation with your  
subjects wasn't quite what I had in mind." He released his grip on Dawn's throat, and  
was rewarded with a spluttering choke.   
  
"My...fault," she gasped, chest heaving. "Just...wanted to..."  
  
"Talk, yes, I know. We'll have to fix that. However, I'd rather talk to Manuel.  
De la Rocha, we need to talk."   
  
Manuel felt his stomach turn. "A...all right, Ahab, just give me a--"  
  
"*Now,* de la Rocha."  
  
"Y...yes, sir."   
  
He tried not to look at Dawn as he followed Ahab out of the room like a  
scolded puppy. He didn't think his pride could take the look in her eyes.  
  
:I'm sorry, Manny,: she sent as he closed the door behind him, her signal  
weakening as he passed a baffler.  
  
:No, senorita, I am sorry,: he replied, and broke contact.   
  
After a moment, Ahab spoke. "I knew you two had a link, Manuel, but I  
didn't think you'd be stupid enough to use it."  
  
"She implemented it, sir."  
  
"Oh, I know. And I'll have a word with her later. I just want to show you  
something before I do." He turned another corner. They were entering another  
restricted area -- one Manuel didn't recognize.  
  
The silence dragged. Finally, out of desperation to fill the void, Manuel had to  
ask.   
  
"Where are we going, senor?"   
  
"Oh, you'll see." Ahab stopped in front of a door marked "Behavioral  
Control," nodding at the idle guards stationed at either side. "I just thought it was  
time you met one of your peers."  
  
"Peers?" As far as Manuel was concerned, he knew all his "peers," if you  
could call them that. Telepaths, mostly, and only a few alphas. There were certainly  
no empaths of his caliber working for the program.   
  
"Yes." The man brushed past a few drifting scientists, heading towards the  
raised mass in the middle of the room, nested in a clot of wires and equipment.  
Manuel frowned and looked closer. There was some sort of small, round tank in the  
middle of the mess.   
  
"At the beginning of the mutant relocations, there were riots in the ghettos,"  
Ahab continued conversationally, approaching the tank. It was no bigger than a  
hatbox, really, and covered by a black cloth. "We encouraged it; it keeps the  
population under control. I thought a sporadic burst of psychosis now and then would  
do them good, so I enlisted the help of Andrew Hamish Graves -- Spoor."  
  
Manuel felt a prickle of fear touch his spine. He'd never met the man, but  
apparently Spoor had been not only a serial killer, but also under Ahab's care for a  
time. Unfortunately, the erstwhile Dr. Campbell had misjudged Spoor's capabilities,  
and by the time the sociopath had been deported Rory had been missing not only half  
a leg, but a few marbles as well.  
  
"Sadly, Graves had a deathwish," Ahab went on, studiously inspecting a tank.  
"Within the first month he tried to commit suicide seven times, no matter how many  
precautions we took. I believe he even attempted to smash his skull open on his cell  
wall, and only stopped once he lost consciousness. He was useful for crowd-control,  
however, so we didn't want to give him up. We found that certain...modifications  
were in order. Hence this." He twitched aside the cloth.   
  
At first Manuel thought it was some kind of plant -- cauliflower, perhaps, or  
at the very least something pickled. Certainly it was whitish and withered. It took  
almost a full five seconds before he noticed that cauliflower usually didn't have eyes.   
  
Manuel realized he was looking at the disembodied brain of Andrew Hamish  
Graves.  
  
"Now, since Graves' power to affect emotions was caused by emitting certain  
pheromones we had some initial problems," Ahab continued, not even looking up  
from the tank. "Luckily for us, there were artificial alternatives at our disposal.  
Thanks to Spoor here we've been able to determine that synthetic pheromones are  
every bit as effective as the real thing."  
  
Manuel finally found his voice. "Is he...dead?"  
  
Ahab raised an eyebrow. "Dead? What use would he have been dead? No,  
he's quite alive, much to his regret. Just sleeping. However," Ahab rapped sharply on  
the glass, to no apparent effect, "there are no touch-sensitive nerves in the brain. So  
we use a small electric stimulator, like so." His hand crept towards the adjacent  
consol and pressed a button.   
  
There was no visible change in the brain, but suddenly Manuel was aware of  
another emotional presence in the room. The sheer volume of its hatred staggered  
him, overwhelming the background emotions of the scientists, paling even Ahab's  
glow of sadistic glee. For that one desperate moment Manuel felt himself drowning in  
the rage and despair of Graves, trapped in a tiny box of loathing and misery that he  
was unable to escape. Those floating brown eyes, before so dead and empty, suddenly  
seemed to blaze with a malevolence Manuel knew should have been impossible  
without a face.   
  
Then Manuel returned to his senses, slamming his shields around him. The  
flood of emotion ebbed to something manageable, and his mind was his own again.   
  
He realized that Ahab was looking at him steadily. Those flat, mirthless eyes  
set against a face twisted into a jaunty grin were somehow even more frightening than  
Graves'.   
  
"Now," the man hissed softly, "aren't you glad you decided to cooperate?"  
  
Manuel felt the blood drain from his face. "...S-si, senor," he whispered.   
  
"Good." Ahab abruptly turned on his heel, away from Manuel. "Now, you  
have the rest of the day off."  
  
"I..? But what about Embers?"  
  
"I'm going to have that talk with her. She's a reasonable girl. I'm sure it  
won't take long."  
  
Manuel suppressed a shudder. A talk from Ahab could mean anything from a  
civilized conversation to a medieval torture session. Against his will, his eyes  
gravitated again towards Graves' seething cortex, exhibited in the tank like a  
grotesque work of art.   
  
"Yes, sir," Manuel said at last, his voice hollow. What else could he do?  
Fighting would only earn him an expulsion...or perhaps a tank of his own.  
  
He wasn't sure how he got into the hallway. All he knew was that Ahab  
wasn't with him, and he could no longer feel Graves' rage.   
  
_Dawn is faced with torture or worse, and all I can think about is how grateful  
I am that it is not me,_ he thought bitterly, starting towards the exit. _And should I  
rebel...no. I won't think about it. That won't happen to me. Not to me._  
  
Once more, the image of Graves' brain filled his thoughts. He shivered.   
  
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the man trying to get his  
attention until he was actually touched on the shoulder. Consequently, Manuel almost  
knocked him over when he spun around, ready to strike out.  
  
"Mr. de la Rocha," Seizure said, raising his good hand in a placating manner.  
"I'm sorry if I--"  
  
"What do you want?" Manuel snapped. Seizure looked taken aback.  
  
"I wanted to talk to you," he replied. "I want to know more about the Hound  
program."  
  
"Then ask Ahab," Manuel retorted. "I'm off for the rest of the day."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Goodbye."  
  
Manuel left the man behind him, open-mouthed and hurt. He felt no pity for  
Seizure; he had learned long ago that being a mutant did not automatically evoke  
feelings of brotherhood in others. This was unfortunate, because with Manuel's  
personality he could have used the extra edge.   
  
_One day I'll see that grotesque on my table,_ Manuel thought as he wound  
down the halls towards the security checkpoint. _And then he'll thank me for not  
getting his hopes up._   
  
He walked in silence, pausing only long enough to sign out and undergo the  
mandatory search process. What they were expecting to find on him he never knew;  
he didn't work with any equipment that could have been concealed in a jacket, and it  
wasn't as if he could ferry out a Hound. Still, he had little say in the matter, and  
protesting only made it worse.   
  
He returned to his building -- not a barracks, but one of the miserable little  
apartment buildings around the complex that had been commandeered for employee  
housing. They had been renovated since their purchase, but Manuel found his  
apartments stifling. After his airy villa in Spain and the decadence of the Hellfire Club,  
a handful of miserable rooms was hardly enough to satisfy him.   
  
The "doorman," an armed guard with a paranoid eye, watched him as he  
entered the building, but said nothing. Security cameras followed the empath through  
the lobby, into the elevator, and then to his rooms. The building was small, and no  
one wanted to live near him; he had the floor to himself. The faded carpet and water-  
stained walls smelled of must and mold. The superintendent had promised to fix the  
place up, but it was a building for the mutant employees, and no heroic measures  
were taken.  
  
He spared a moment to fumble for his key, although why he bothered to lock  
his door was beyond him. He had little enough worth stealing, and the building's  
other occupants stayed as far away from him as possible. Anyway, the damnable door  
was always jammed as it was -- he had a hard enough time getting into the place  
*with* a key.  
  
The scent of stale air assailed his nostrils; the maid hadn't been doing her job,  
as usual. Manuel made a mental note to have a "talk" with her when he saw her next.  
She was an orange-skinned mutant, apparently powerless, and about as bright as the  
carrot she resembled. It wouldn't have surprised him if she'd been dull enough to  
decide Manuel's apartments were a good place to skimp on the service.  
  
Manuel ripped off his jacket and collapsed into an armchair, his gaze falling on  
the liquor cabinet. He'd have to restock it soon; he had the tendency to let his mind  
wander while drinking, and before he knew it an entire bottle would be gone. Well, he  
had little else to spend his wages on, at any rate, so it mattered little.  
  
He forced himself out of the chair and over to the cabinet. There wasn't much  
left -- a little brandy, that was all -- but he would have to make do. He took a glass  
and the bottle and settled back down.  
  
Allison would never have stood for this sort of thing. She never would have  
fallen into Ahab's hands, for one thing -- and even if she had, she'd have fought rather  
than submitting to him. He thought back to his days with her in Brazil, trying to  
rehabilitate the inhabitants of Nova Roma and using his powers for the first  
worthwhile cause in his life, then or now. Allison Crestmere had been a fierce,  
beautiful woman, and she had chosen Manuel. Manuel, who Xavier had once referred  
to as the incarnation of evil. He could still smell the scent of her golden hair, like  
sunshine and fresh flowers...  
  
But he had ruined it, just like everything else. That had been so very, very long  
ago, and Allison was so very, very dead.   
  
_And my last chance of redemption gone with her._  
  
He poured himself a glass of brandy and began to drink.  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Empty Men 6/?  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Men, villains, etc all belong to Marvel Comics. Anyone you don't  
recognize probably belongs to me.   
  
Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took so long, but I've been busy lately. Too busy.  
Dexcon's in about a week, and college starts a little while after I get back, so you can  
probably expect more delays. Verdammt obligations. I also switched computers since  
last time, so I'll be updating the site as soon as I remember where I put it...  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
"Alone at last."  
  
Dawn lifted her head from the table, frowning. "Where's Manuel?" She had  
expected Ahab to return, but she'd hoped Manuel would be with him. At least then  
she wouldn't have felt so helpless...  
  
But then, that was his game, wasn't it?   
  
"I sent him home," Ahab replied. "This doesn't concern him."  
  
_This isn't a good sign._ "All right," Dawn said, shifting uncomfortably, "If  
we're going to talk, can't I at least sit up?"  
  
"No." The doctor's impassive face stared down at her, outlined by the sickly  
flourescent lighting. The girl sighed and let her head fall.  
  
"Do you know," Ahab said, reaching down to touch her hair, "what kind of  
mutant I hate the most?" His fingers found a strand and began to twist, his lips curled  
in a sneer. "Telepaths."  
  
Dawn tried to ignore the pain. "Telepaths?"   
  
"Yes." He gave her hair a sharp yank. "Changing what should be  
inviolate...you X-Men never held anything sacred, did you? Not thoughts, not laws,  
not even death. Isn't that right, little necropath?"  
  
"Dr. Campbell, I can talk to dead mutants. That's all. If you want resurrection,  
talk to Sam or Glenn."  
  
"Oh, but you could do so much more." His hand slid around and across her  
cheek, almost tenderly. "You have so much potential."  
  
She moved her head to the side, away from his touch. "So Sinister told me a  
long time ago," she replied. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told him: thanks  
for the offer, but I'm happy with what I have. They're nothing flashy, but they're  
good powers. I've done a lot of good with them, or like to think I have."   
  
"Yes, I'm sure it's very satisfying to attack those who hold different views  
than your own."  
  
Dawn snorted. "Maybe when I was a kid, yeah, it was a little fun, and I won't  
pretend I've always turned the other cheek. But I've never thrown the first punch,  
and I dropped out of the hero business after I graduated from Generation X. I'd have  
been happy to stay a reserve member if two dozen MCOs hadn't broken down my  
front door after Glenn and I refused to move to a ghetto."  
  
"That's the law."  
  
"That's bullshit. We registered our genetic records because we aren't ashamed  
of what we are, but damned if we're going to raise our children in a slum. No one  
deserves to be treated like an animal."  
  
"So moving to a government-sanctioned housing project is against your  
ethics, but using your paramilitary training to nearly cripple a dozen officers of the  
law isn't?" Ahab clucked his tongue. "Your virtuous sensibilities do not impress me."  
  
"The key word there is 'nearly,'" Dawn pointed out, refusing to rise to the  
bait. "And when you consider that my husband can tear the lid off a tank, I think we  
handled things quite well. Besides, these 'officers of the law' were threatening our  
*children.* I'm an empath as well as a telepath, doctor, and I'm especially sensitive to  
those I love. When you can feel your daughter so terrified that she can hardly breathe  
and see that someone's about to break your son's arm simply because he dared to ask  
'why?' something inside you snaps."  
  
"And yet you're willing to place them in jeopardy by not only joining a  
terrorist organization, but taking them with you?" Ahab snapped. Dawn blinked,  
shocked.   
  
"Dr. Campbell, the X-Men *isn't* a terrorist organization," she protested,  
trying to raise herself from the table. "You know that. You used to be an advisor for  
Excalibur and the Muir Island Research Center, for God's sake. We may have raided  
a few government installations, but we've never made demands, and we've certainly  
never killed anyone. We're just trying to survive. We may not be paragons of virtue,  
but we're no danger to the public. Why are you treating us like this?"   
  
He smiled and touched her cheek, almost tenderly. Then he pinched it. Hard.  
  
"Because," Ahab breathed as the girl cried out, "you deserve it. Your 'dream'  
ruined my life, and now I'm going to destroy all of yours." His lips curled viciously.  
"One...by...one."   
  
"What do you..." Dawn's eyes widened. "Wait. Is this about the Shadow  
King? Dr. Campbell, we tried to help y--"  
  
"Only when the rest of your little friends were caught as well," he snapped. "I  
was that...thing's...host for a year. A *year*. Do you know what that was *like*?"  
  
"Yes."   
  
That seemed to catch him by surprise. "What?"  
  
"I know." She pulled herself up a little higher, an angry red spot already  
blossoming where he'd pinched her. "It wasn't for nearly as long, but it was long  
enough. That feeling they leave, like grease inside your mind...like you'll never be  
clean again..."  
  
For a moment he looked uncertain. Then his eyes hardened. "You're lying.  
Farouk never had you."  
  
"No, he didn't, but Emplate did. I was stupid. I tried to take him on, one-on-  
one, even though I hardly had any training at all -- and I paid the price. I...did some  
things I wasn't proud of. And feeding off your teammates does not inspire trust."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, supping. Whatever he called it. Extracting the genetic material from a  
mutant's body and taking it into your own. Emplate enjoyed it -- he could even use  
their powers, for a while. Personally, I had to see Ms. Frost in her office every night  
for two months before I could even look my teammates in the eye again. But Dr.  
Campbell, that's not the point -- we can help you get over what the Shadow King did  
to you. We can--"  
  
Ahab broke in, laughing harshly. "You can what?" he rasped. "You can 'save'  
me? A handful of genetic defects whose numbers are decimated with every passing  
day? Look at you. You can't even save yourself."  
  
"I don't have to," she replied. "My teammates will find me."  
  
This did not have the desire effect, for Ahab only smiled.   
  
"They'll find something," he agreed. "Whether or not it will be what they're  
looking for depends entirely on you."  
  
Dawn arched a cynical eyebrow. "Now who's overconfident? Even with the  
drugs, I can still fight Manuel. We had the same teacher, after all. And, unless you've  
added new personnel in the last two weeks, I know he's the strongest psi you have.  
My offensive skills may not be as good as Ms. Frost's, but where defense and  
resistance are concerned, I'm just as good. Maybe better. I know all the tricks she  
taught Manuel and more. He can't cause me any permanent damage."  
  
"De la Rocha?" Ahab snorted. "Of course not. The brat is just laying the  
groundwork. No, I want to enjoy this. I'll do most of the work myself, once you're  
ready."  
  
"You're welcome to try, but I'll take my chances."  
  
"Suit yourself. Incidentally, how is your guardian Banshee getting along? Life  
without a limb can be difficult, especially now that you don't have Forge around to  
help build new ones. I bet that little betrayal stung, didn't it?"  
  
"He had his reasons for leaving. And Mr. Cassidy is fine, by the way. Thanks  
for asking."  
  
"Is that a hint of bitterness I hear, Mrs. Keaton? Joining us was the logical  
choice for him, after all. He began with the government, he might as well end with it."  
  
"Please. Forge is an adult. There's nothing wrong with moving on."  
_Especially if it keeps you alive,_ she added privately.   
  
Ahab moved back slightly, enough so that she had to twist her head in an  
uncomfortable position to look at him. "Such understanding. Such acceptance. Tell  
me, do you really feel this way, or are you merely overcompensating for your father's  
bigotry? He beat you when he found out what you were, didn't he?"  
  
_Don't let him see you're angry,_ Dawn thought, suppressing an angry retort.  
_Change the subject. Ignore it. This is how he gets to you._ "It's hard to hate  
someone when you're a psi, Dr. Campbell. When you can see a person inside and out,  
it's hard to judge them. The mind isn't an ugly thing from the inside."  
  
"Isn't it?"  
  
"No."  
  
Ahab reached up to the mechanical halo that encircled his head, pressing  
something on the side. There was no visual change in the man, but suddenly Dawn  
was painfully aware that his artificial psishields had dropped. Instinctively she reached  
out to his mind, trying to discern his reasoning--  
  
But where she expected to find smooth natural barriers was only the thinnest  
veil of resistance. She touched it tentatively, and it tore like tissue paper beneath the  
gentle probe.  
  
Caught off guard, Dawn fell into a tangled mass of shredded personality and  
razor-like thoughts, so sharp they cut at her astral form. She screamed and recoiled,  
tearing herself away from the wreckage of Ahab's psyche, scrambling towards the  
safety of her body. The darkness sucked at her, trying to hold her back, but  
desperation and adrenaline won. When she finally extracted herself she was battered,  
bruised, and utterly horrified.   
  
_Oh God, his mind..._ she thought, panting as if she'd run a marathon, _like a  
shattered mirror wrapped in tissue paper...how does he stand it?_  
  
"I think we can both agree *that* was not a thing of beauty, Mrs. Keaton,"  
Ahab said, calmly reactivating his halo.   
  
"The Shadow King...destroyed you," Dawn managed, her voice hoarse with  
half-remembered pain. "How...how did you *live* like that?"  
  
"I didn't," Ahab replied. "But I've learned to."  
  
"But -- I don't understand. How could they even let you leave Muir Island  
with a mind so damaged? I can't believe the Professor could have been so careless."  
  
"Xavier's top priority was to his X-Men, not one crippled human. He didn't  
even try to stop me from leaving."  
  
"That's..." she wanted to say "impossible," but was suddenly painfully aware  
that she had no grounds to make that claim. She had been hospitalized for most of the  
aftermath, for one thing. It was true Xavier had been distracted after the ordeal; the  
emotional and mental trauma to the enslaved X-Men had needed to be dealt with, and  
many had been hurt. She couldn't imagine him letting Rory go, but by the same token  
it was hard to imagine him being less than fully focused on his students in their time of  
need. It was possible he'd been...careless.  
  
_But we'll never know now, will we? The Professor is dead. Which means  
Rory is left groping for whatever targets he can find._  
  
"Look," she said at last, "I don't pretend to know the Professor's reasoning,  
and I won't make excuses for him. I can't change what happened, or what you think  
happened, but I *can* offer to help you. Please, Dr. Campbell, for Dr. MacTaggert's  
sake, let me make it up to you."  
  
Ahab smiled, tight and cruel. "No. No, I much prefer my own way of coping.  
But you can be sure that I'll remember your offer when you're at the end of my  
leash."   
  
Despite all her self-assurances, Dawn was overcome with a sudden sense of  
dread. "But Dr. Ca--"   
  
"That's enough," Ahab snapped. He pressed a button, and she was relieved of  
her manacles. "Now, get up."  
  
Dawn did as she was told, all the while searching those hard, brown eyes for  
some sign of compassion. _There has to be something,_ she thought, climbing to her  
feet. _He may be broken, but he's still *him*..._  
  
Then he struck her.   
  
Dawn was a slight woman, and the blow was unexpected. She stumbled  
backwards, almost onto the ground, completely taken aback. She'd been hit before,  
but never by a friend. Never by someone she trusted.   
  
Before she had time to recover he had seized her arm and drawn her close, so  
close she could feel his sour breath on her face. Dawn tried to find her voice, but her  
words withered before they reached her tongue.   
  
"Get used to it," Ahab said shortly, bringing his lips close to her ear. Dawn  
shook her head.  
  
"This isn't you," she insisted doggedly. "I know it isn't. You're--"  
  
He struck her again.   
  
"You don't know what I am," Ahab hissed. "Even when you look into others'  
minds you continue to delude yourself by seeing only what you want to see. I will  
show you what you refuse to see. I will show you the truth."  
  
Dawn coughed, wiping at her cut and swollen lip. "I know what you want, Dr.  
Campbell," she whispered. "You can hurt me all you like, but you can't make me hate  
you."  
  
"We'll see, Keaton," Ahab smiled grimly. "Just remember this moment when  
all the pretty spandex costumes are shredded and bloody, all those little masks  
burning in effigy...and you're at the end of my leash, enjoying it just as much as I."   
  
"Over my dead body."  
  
"Perhaps. But I doubt it."   
  
They locked eyes. _Don't blink. Just don't blink--_  
  
Then the intercom crackled, and Dawn gave an involuntary start. "Ahab,  
Summers is ready for her session," came a voice, and the psi tried to pretend she  
hadn't just jumped a foot in the air. Ahab did not seem impressed.   
  
"Send her in," the man said, his eyes not leaving Dawn. He smiled again. "It's  
time you see what you have to look forward to."  
  
Dawn's mind was still on the unseen voice's proclamation. "Summers..?" she  
repeated stupidly. _But Jean and Scott are dead..._  
  
Before her mind could reach the obvious conclusion, reality did it for her. The  
small, cowering girl who was led into the room scant moments later was instantly  
recognizable as Rachel Summers, the girl whose tenth birthday party Dawn herself  
had attended years ago.  
  
"Rachel..." Dawn breathed, her heart constricting in her chest. Ahab dismissed  
the attendant who had led her in and took the leash, ruffling the girl's short red hair.   
  
"Yet another example of selective attentions," Ahab said, gazing down at the  
thin form that crouched beside him. "Did you even look for her? Or did you just chalk  
her up as another loss?"  
  
Dawn didn't know what to say.  
  
"Rachel," she finally managed, taking a step towards the girl, but Rachel  
shrunk back against Ahab, shivering like a cornered animal.   
  
Dawn tried again. "Rachel, it's me. It's Dawn Keaton. Remember? I used to  
be in Generation X--"  
  
But the girl only disappeared further behind Ahab's legs, shivering with fear.  
The rest of Dawn's words died in her throat.   
  
"Oh, don't look so worried," Ahab said, giving Rachel an absent pat on the  
head. "She remembers perfectly well who you are. Her loyalties, however, have been  
somewhat altered. She's mine now."   
  
"I..." Dawn's throat felt strangely thick. "I...I don't understand. She's a  
*child*. How could you do this to a *child*?"   
  
Ahab had crouched next to Rachel and was stroking her thin, scarred face.  
Then, almost tenderly, he brushed his lips against her forehead. She shuddered  
beneath his touch, but remained still.   
  
"Because, Keaton," Ahab breathed, a grim smile playing across his lips,  
"because I *can*."   
  
  
[_*_]  
  
  
An hour later Dawn was back in her cell, chin resting on her knees. Her  
"quarters" were about the size of a closet, and utterly devoid of anything but a drain  
in the far corner. It was dark, dirty, and reeked of sewage. It was much like being  
housed in a latrine.   
  
Dawn touched her bottom lip. It was stiff and swollen, and her left cheek  
wasn't much better. Ahab had stopped just short of breaking her jaw.  
  
"He is not the man you knew," Manuel had told her. She hadn't believed it.  
But he'd shown her his mind -- a chaotic, jagged thing, all hatred and pain. Even now  
her brain was still raw from the encounter, as if it had been dunked in scalding water.  
Could the man she had met years ago have survived with a psyche like that?  
  
_Don't think about that,_ she told herself, hugging her knees. _Just...try not  
to think about it for a while. Think about something else._  
  
But what she had seen him do to Rachel...  
  
_No. Anything but that._  
  
She exhaled softly and concentrated. It was a strain thanks to the dampeners,  
but her powers were still functional -- for all the good they did her.   
  
"Will," she whispered through swollen lips, stretching her mind towards that  
familiar presence. A vague shape formed in the darkness, hovering on the edge of  
sight. Dawn closed her eyes and leaned against the cold cement.   
  
:I have been having the most terrible day,: she sent as she sensed the presence  
gather its bearings.   
  
:Another tough day at the lab, eh, Dawny?: the shade sent, settling down  
beside her. Spectral fingers touched her bruised cheek, tingling like pins and needles.  
:What happened?:  
  
:Dr. Campbell,: Dawn replied, shifting away from his touch. :I don't want to  
talk about it.:  
  
:Then why did you even bother to--:   
  
:Will, please.:   
  
The ghost of her cousin fell silent. In the dim light Will studied her pale face.  
  
:What happened?: he repeated, and she knew that this time he was not  
referring to her bruises.   
  
:I found Rachel Summers,: she replied softly. :And I think...I think I might  
have made a mistake.:  
  
He didn't have to ask about what; it wasn't necessary.   
  
:I'm sorry it had to happen this way, sweetie,: Will said. And he was. Not only  
because she now faced almost certain torture, but because her trust in a man she had  
thought to be a friend had suddenly been shaken. Sometimes, Will knew, it was the  
wounds that showed the least that hurt the most.   
  
  
  



End file.
